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19  Douglas,  Norman.  Paneros.  Some 
words  on  Aphrodisiacs  and  the  like. 
12mo,  original  boards,  leather  label. 
Florence  [1930].  $^5.00 

First  edition.  One  of  250  autographed  copies.  A  tine  copy 
but  without  the  jacket  and  box  in  which  it  was  issued. 


I  p-  Boston  iss, 

'  and  wfh'!he  /eat^  ''®"'^'  '^''^out  inse  d 
I  2;  Of 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2019  with  funding  from 
Getty  Research  Institute 


https://archive.org/details/panoramaotherpoeOOwhit 


THE 


PANORAMA, 


OTHER  POEMS. 


BY 

JOHN  G.  WHITTIER. 


BOSTON: 

TICK  NOR  AND  FIELDS. 
M  DCCC  LTI. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1856,  by 
JOHN  G.  WHITTIER, 

In  the  Clerk’s  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


STBREOTTPSD  BT 

HOBART  &  ROBBINS, 

New  Ea^land  Type  and  Stereotype  Foundery, 
BOSTON. 


A  !  fredome  is  a  nobill  thing  ! 
Fredome  mayse  man  to  haif  liking. 
Fredome  all  solace  to  man  giffiis  ; 
He  levys  at  ese  that  frely  levys  ! 

A  nobil  hart  may  haif  nane  ese 
Na  ellys  nooht  that  may  him  plese 
Gyff  Fredome  failythe.” 


Archdeacon  Barbour. 


CONTENTS. 


pioa 

THE  PANORAMA, .  3 

OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 

Summer  by  the  Lake-Side, . .  29 

The  Hermit  op  the  Thbbaid, . 35 

Burns, . 41 

William  Forster,  . 47 

Rantoul, . 52 

The  Dream  op  Pio  Nono, . 67 

Tauler,  . 61 

Lines,  etc., . 65 

The  Voices . 67 

The  Hero, . 72 

Hy  Dream, . 78 

The  Barefoot  Boy, . 82 

Flowers  in  Winter, . 87 

The  Rendition, . 91 


VI 


CONTENTS 


FAOS 

Likes,  etc., . 93 

The  Fruit-Gift, . 96 

A  Memory, . 98 

To  C.  S., . 100 

The  Kansas  Emigrants, . 102 

Song  op  the  Slaves  in  the  Desert, . 104 

Lines,  etc., . 108 

The  New  Exodus, . 110 

The  Haschish, . 112 

BALLADS. 

Mart  Garvin, . 117 

Maud  Muller . 127 

The  Banger, . 134 


THE  PANOEAMA. 


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THE  PANORAMA. 


Through  the  long  hall  the  shuttered  windows  shetl 
A  dubious  light  on  every  up-turned  head,  — 

On  locks  like  those  of  Abs  dom  the  fair, 

On  the  bald  apex  ringed  with  scanty  hair, 

()n  blank  indifi'erence  and  on  curious  stare  ; 

On  the  pale  Showman  reading  from  his  stage 
The  hieroglyphics  of  that  facial  page  ; 

Half  sad,  half  scornful,  listening  to  the  bruit 
Of  restless  cane-tap  and  impatient  foot. 

And  the  shrill  call,  across  the  general  din, 

“  Roll  up  your  curtain  !  Let  the  show  begin  ! 

At  length  a  murmur  like  the  winds  that  break 
Into  green  waves  the  prairie’s  grassy  lake. 

Deepened  and  swelled  to  music  clear  and  loud. 

And,  as  the  west  wind  lifts  a  summer  cloud. 


4 


THE  PANORAMA. 


The  curtain  rose,  disclosing  wide  and  far 
A  green  land  stretching  to  the  evening  star, 

Fair  rivers,  skirted  by  primeval  trees 
And  flowers  hummed  over  by  the  desert  bees. 
Marked  by  tall  bluffs  whose  slopes  of  greenness  show 
Fantastic  outcrops  of  the  rock  below,  — 

Tiie  slow  result  of  patient  Nature’s  pains. 

And  plastic  fingering  of  her  sun  and  rains,  — 
x\rch,  tower,  and  gate,  grotesquely-windowed  hall. 
And  long  escarpment  of  half-crumbled  wall. 

Huger  than  those  which,  from  steep  hills  of  vine. 
Stare  through  their  loop-holes  on  the  travelled  Rhine ; 
Suggesting  vaguely  to  the  gazer’s  mind 
A  fancy,  idle  as  the  prairie  wind. 

Of  the  land’s  dwellers  in  an  age  unguessed  — 

The  unsung  Jotuns  of  the  mystic  West. 

Beyond,  the  prairie’s  sea-like  swells  surpass 
Tlie  Tartar’s  marvels  of  his  Land  of  Grass, 

Vast  as  the  sky  against  whose  sunset  shores 
\Vave  after  wave  the  billowy  greenness  pours  ; 

And,  onward  still,  like  islands  in  that  main 
Loom  the  rough  peaks  of  many  a  mountain  chain, 


THE  PANORAMA. 


5 


Whence  East  and  West  a  thousand  waters  run 
From  Winter  lingering  under  Summer’s  sun. 

And,  still  beyond,  long  lines  of  foam  and  sand 
Tell  where  Pacific  rolls  his  waves  a-land. 

From  many  a  wide-lapped  port  and  land-locked  bay. 
Opening  with  thunderous  pomp  the  world’s  highway 
To  Indian  isles  of  spice,  and  marts  of  far  Cathay. 

“  Such,”  said  the  Showman,  as  the  curtain  fell, 

“  Is  the  new  Canaan  of  our  Israel  — 

The  land  of  promise  to  the  swarming  North, 

Which,  hive-like,  sends  its  annual  surplus  forth, 

To  the  poor  Southron  on  his  worn-out  soil, 

Scathed  by  the  curses  of  unnatural  toil  ; 

To  Europe’s  exiles  seeking  home  and  rest. 

And  the  lank  noinads  of  the  wandering  West, 

Who,  asking  neither,  in  their  love  of  change 
And  the  free  bison’s  amplitude  of  range, 

Rear  the  log  hut,  for  present  shelter  meant, 

Not  future  comfort,  like  an  Arab’s  tent.” 

Then  spake  a  shrewd  on-looker.  “  Sir,”  said  he, 

“  I  like  your  picture,  but  I  fain  would  see 
A  sketch  of  what  your  promised  land  will  be 


6 


THE  PANORAMA. 


When,  with  electric  nerve,  and  fiery-brained. 

With  Nature’s  forces  to  its  chariot  chained, 

Tlie  future  grasping,  by  the  past  obeyed. 

The  twentieth  century  rounds  a  new  decade.” 

Then  said  the  Showman,  sadly:  “lie  who  grieves 
Over  the  scattering  of  the  Sibyl’s  leaves 
Unwisely  mourns.  Suffice  it,  that  we  know 
What  needs  must  ripen  from  the  seed  we  sow  ; 

That  present  time  is  but  the  mould  wherein 
We  cast  the  shapes  of  holiness  and  sin. 

A  painful  watcher  of  the  passing  hour. 

Its  lust  of  gold,  its  strife  for  place  and  power  ; 

Its  lack  of  manhood,  honor,  reverence,  truth, 
Wise-thoughted  age,  and  generous-hearted  youth  ; 
Nor  yet  unmindful  of  each  better  sign  — 

The  low,  far  lights,  which  on  th’  horizon  shine, 

Like  those  which  sometimes  tremble  on  the  rim 
Of  clouded  skies  when  day  is  closing  dim. 

Flashing  athwart  the  purple  spears  of  rain 
The  hope  of  sunshine  on  the  hills  again  :  — 

I  need  no  prophet’s  word,  nor  shapes  that  pass 
Like  clouding  shadows  o’er  a  magic  glass  ; 


THE  PANORAMA. 


For  now,  as  ever,  passionless  and  cold, 

Doth  the  dread  angel  of  the  future  hold 
Evil  and  good  before  us,  with  no  voice 
Ur  warning  look  to  guide  us  in  our  choice  ; 

^^"ith  spectral  hands  outreaching  through  the  gloom 
The  shadowy  contrasts  of  the  coming  doom. 
Transferred  from  these,  it  now  remains  to  give 
The  sun  and  shade  of  Fate’s  alternative.” 

Then,  with  a  burst  of  music,  touching  all 
The  keys  of  thrifty  life  —  the  mill-stream’s  fall, 

Tlie  engine’s  pant  along  its  cpiivering  rails. 

The  anvil’s  ring,  the  measured  beat  of  flails. 

The  sweep  of  scythes,  the  reaper’s  whistled  tune. 
Answering  the  summons  of  the  bells  of  noon. 

The  woodman’s  hail  along  the  river  shores. 

The  steamboat’s  signal,  and  the  dip  of  oars,  — • 
Slowly  the  curtain  rose  from  off  a  land 
Fair  as  God’s  garden.  Broad  on  either  hand 
The  golden  wheat-fields  glimmered  in  the  sun. 

And  the  tall  maize  its  yellow  tassels  spun. 

Smooth  highways  set  with  hedge-rows  living  green. 
With  steepled  towns  through  shaded  vistas  seen. 


8 


THE  PANORAMA. 


The  sclioolliOHse  murmuring  with  its  liive-like  swarm, 
The  brook-bank  whitening  in  the  grist-mill’s  storm, 
The  painted  farm-house  shining  through  the  leaves 
Of  fruited  orchards  bending  at  its  oaves. 

Where  live  again,  around  the  Western  hearth. 

The  homely  old-time  virtues  of  the  North  ; 

AVhere  the  blithe  housewife  rises  with  the  day, 

And  well-paid  labor  counts  his  task  a  play. 

And,  grateful  tokens  of  a  Bible  free, 

And  the  free  Gospel  of  Humanity, 

Of  diverse  sects  and  differing  names  the  shrines. 

One  in  their  faith,  whate’er  their  outward  signs. 

Like  vaiying  strophes  of  the  same  sweet  hymn 
From  many  a  prairie’s  swell  and  river’s  brim, 

A  thousand  church-spires  sanctify  the  air 
Of  the  calm  Sabbath,  with  their  sign  of  prayer. 

Like  sudden  night-fall  over  bloom  and  green 
The  curtain  dropped :  and,  momently,  between 
Tlie  clank  of  fetter  and  the  crack  of  thong. 

Half  sob,  half  laughter,  music  swept  along  — 

A  strange  refrain,  whose  idle  words  and  low. 

Like  drunken  mourners,  kept  the  time  of  woe  ; 


THE  PANORAMA. 


9 


As  if  the  revellers  at  a  masquerade 

Heard  in  the  distance  funeral  marches  played. 

Such  music,  dashing-  all  his  smiles  vfith  tears, 

The  thoughtful  voyager  on  Ponchartrain  hears, 
Where,  through  the  noonday  dusk  of  wooded  shores. 
The  negro  boatman,  singing  to  his  oars. 

With  a  wild  pathos  borrowed  of  his  wrong 
Redeems  the  jargon  of  his  senseless  song. 

“Look,”  said  the  Showman,  sternly,  as  he  rolled 
Ills  curtain  upward  ;  “  Fate’s  reverse  behold  !  ” 

A  village  straggling  in  loose  disarray 
Of  vulgar  newness,  premature  decay  ; 

A  tavern,  crazy  with  its  whiskey  brawls, 

With  “  Slaves  at  Auction  !  ”  garnishing  its  walls. 
Without,  surrounded  by  a  motley  crowd. 

The  shrewd-eyed  salesman,  garrulous  and  loud, 

A  squire  or  colonel  in  his  pride  of  place. 

Known  at  free  fights,  the  caucus,  and  the  race. 
Prompt  to  proclaim  his  honor  without  blot, 

And  silence  doubters  with  a  ten-pace  shot, 

Mingling  the  negro-driving  bully’s  rant 
With  pious  phrase  and  democratic  cant, 


10 


THE  PANORAMA. 


Yet  never  scrupling",  with  a  filthy  jest, 

To  sell  the  infant  from  its  mother’s  breast. 

Break  through  all  ties  of  wedlock,  home,  and  kin. 
Yield  shrinking  girlhood  up  to  gray-beard  sin  ; 
Sell  all  the  virtues  with  his  human  stock. 

The  Christian  graces  on  his  auction-block. 

And  coolly  count  on  shrewdest  bargains  driven 
In  hearts  regenerate,  and  in  souls  forgiven  ! 

Look  once  again  !  The  moving  canvas  shows 
A  slave  plantation’s  slovenly  repose. 

Where,  in  rude  cabins  rotting  midst  their  weeds. 
The  human  chattel  eats,  and  sleeps,  and  breeds  ; 
And,  held  a  brute,  in  practice,  as  in  law. 

Becomes  in  fact  the  thing  ho ’s  taken  for. 

There,  early  summoned  to  the  hemp  and  corn. 
The  nursing  mother  leaves  her  child  new-boni ; 
There  haggard  sickness,  weak  and  deathly  faint. 
Crawls  to  his  task,  and  fears  to  make  complaint ; 
And  sad-eyed  Rachels,  childless  in  decay, 

W^eep  for  their  lost  ones  sold  and  torn  away  ! 

Of  ampler  size  the  master’s  dwelling  stands, 

In  shabby  keeping  with  his  half-tilled  lands,  — 


THE  PANORAMA. 


11 


The  gates  unhing’ed,  the  yard  with  weeds  unclean, 
The  cracked  veranda  with  a  tipsy  lean. 

Without,  loose-scattered  like  a  wreck  adrift, 

Signs  of  misrule  and  tokens  of  unthrift ; 

Within,  profusion  to  discomfort  joined. 

The  listless  body  and  the  vacant  mind  ; 

The  fear,  the  hate,  the  theft  and  falsehood,  bont 
In  menial  hearts  of  toil,  and  stripes,  and  scorn  I 
There,  all  the  vices,  which,  like  birds  obscene. 
Batten  on  slavery  loathsome  and  unclean. 

From  the  foul  kitchen  to  the  parlor  rise. 

Pollute  the  nursery  where  the  child-heir  lies. 

Taint  infant  lips  beyond  all  after  cure. 

With  the  fell  poison  of  a  breast  impure  ; 

Touch  boyhood’s  passions  with  the  breath  of  flame. 
From  girlhood’s  instincts  steal  the  blush  of  shame. 
So  swells  from  low  to  high,  from  weak  to  strong, 
The  tragic  chorus  of  the  baleful  wrong  ; 

Guilty  or  guiltless,  all  within  its  range 
Feel  the  blind  justice  of  its  sure  revenge. 

Still  scenes  like  these  the  moving  chart  reveals. 
Up  the  long  western  steppes  the  blighting  steals  ; 


\ 


12 


THE  PANORAMA. 


Down  the  Pacific  slope  the  evil  Fate 
Glides  like  a  shadow  to  the  Golden  Gate  : 

Prom  sea  to  sea  the  drear  eclipse  is  thrown, 
hh’om  sea  to  sea  the  Mauvaises  Terres  have  grown, 

A  belt  of  curses  on  the  New  World’s  zone  ! 

The  curtain  fell.  All  drew  a  freer  breath. 

As  men  are  wont  to  do  when  mournful  death 
Is  covered  from  their  sight.  The  Showman  stood 
With  drooping  brow  in  sorrow’s  attitudo 
One  moment,  then  with  sudden  gesture  shook 
llis  loose  hair  back,  and  with  the  air  and  look 
Of  one  who  felt,  beyond  the  narrow  stage 
And  listening  group,  the  presence  of  the  age. 

And  heard  the  footsteps  of  the  things  to  be. 

Poured  out  his  soul  in  earnest  words  and  free. 

"0,  friends!”  he  said,  "in  this  poor  trick  of 
paint 

You  see  the  semblance,  incomplete  and  faint. 

Of  the  two-fronted  Future,  which,  to-day. 

Stands  dim  and  silent,  waiting  in  your  way. 

To-day,  your  servant,  subject  to  your  will  ; 
To-morrow,  master,  or  for  good  or  ill. 


THE  PANORAMA. 


If) 

o 

If  the  dark  face  of  Slavery  on  you  turns, 

If  the  mad  curse  its  paper  barrier  spurns, 

If  the  world  granary  of  the  West  is  made 
The  last  foul  market  of  the  slaver’s  trade, 

'VWiy  rail  at  fate  ?  The  mischief  is  your  own. 

Why  hate  your  neighbor  ?  Blame  yourselves  alone  ! 

Men  of  the  North!  The  South  you  charge  with 
wrong 

Is  weak  and  poor,  while  you  are  rich  and  strong. 

If  questions,  —  idle  and  absurd  as  those 
The  old-time  monks  and  Paduan  doctors  chose,  — 
Mere  ghosts  of  questions,  tariffs  and  dead  banks. 
And  scarecrow  pontiffs,  never  broke  your  ranks. 
Your  thews  united  could,  at  once,  roll  back 
The  jostled  nation  to  its  primal  track. 

Nay,  were  you  simply  steadfast,  manly,  just. 

True  to  the  faith  your  fathers  left  in  trust. 

If  stainless  honor  outweighed  in  your  scale 
A  codfish  quintal  or  a  factory  bale. 

Full  many  a  noble  heart  (and  such  remain 
In  all  the  South,  like  Lot  in  Siddim’s  plain. 

Who  watch  and  wait,  and  from  the  wrong’s  control 
Keep  white  and  pure  their  chastity  of  soul). 


14 


THE  PANORAMA. 


Now  sick  to  loathing  of  your  weak  complaints, 

Your  tricks  as  sinners,  and  your  prayers  as  saints. 
Would  half-way  meet  the  frankness  of  your  tone, 
And  feel  their  pulses  beating  with  your  own. 

The  North  !  the  South  !  no  geographic  line 
Can  fix  the  boundary  or  the  point  define, 

Since  each  with  each  so  closely  interblends. 

Where  Slavery  rises,  and  where  Freedom  ends. 
Beneath  ^mur  rocks  the  roots,  far-reaching,  hide 
Of  the  fell  Upas  on- the  Southern  side  ; 

Tlie  tree  whose  branches  in  your  north  winds 
wave 

Dropped  its  young  blossoms  on  Mount  Vernon’s 
grave  ; 

The  nursling  growth  of  Monticello’s  crest 
Is  now  the  glory  of  the  free  North-West ; 

To  the  wise  maxims  of  her  olden  school 
Virginia  listened  from  thy  lips,  Eantoul ; 

Seward’s  w-ords  of  power,  and  Sumner’s  fresh  re¬ 
nown. 

Flow  from  the  pen  that  J efferson  laid  down ! 

I 

And  when,  at  length,  her  years  of  madness  o’er. 

Like  the  crowned  grazer  on  Euphrates’  shore. 


THE  PANORAMA. 


15 


From  her  long  lapse  to  savagery,  her  mouth 
Bitter  with  baneful  herbage,  turns  the  South, 
Resumes  her  old  attire,  and  seeks  to  smooth 
Her  unkempt  tresses  at  the  glass  of  truth, 

Her  early  faith  shall  find  a  tongue  again. 

New  Wythes  and  Pinckneys  swell  that  old  refrain. 
Her  sons  with  yours  renew  the  ancient  pact. 

The  myth  of  Union  prove  at  last  a  fact ! 

Then,  if  one  murmur  mars  the  wide  content. 

Some  Northern  lip  will  drawl  the  last  dissent. 

Some  Union-saving  patriot  of  your  own 
Lament  to  find  his  occupation  gone. 

Grant  that  the  North ’s  insulted,  scorned,  betrayed. 
Overreached  in  bargains  with  her  neighbor  made, 
AUhen  selfish  thrift  and  party  held  the  scales 
For  peddling  dicker,  not  for  honest  sales,  — 

Whom  shall  we  strike  ?  ^Who  most  deserves  our 
blame  ? 

The  braggart  Southron,  open  in  his  aim. 

And  bold  as  wicked,  crashing  straight  through  all 
That  bars  his  purpose,  like  a  cannon-ball  ? 

Or  the  mean  traitor,  breathing  northern  air. 

With  nasal  speech  and  puritanic  hair. 


16 


THE  PANOKAMA. 


Whose  cant  the  loss  of  principle  survives, 

As  the  mud-turtle  e’en  its  head  outlives  ; 

Who,  caught,  chin-buried  in  some  foul  offence. 
Puts  on  a  look  of  injured  innocence. 

And  consecrates  his  baseness  to  the  cause 
Of  constitution,  union,  and  the  laws  ? 

Praise  to  the  place-man  who  can  hold  aloof 
His  still  unpurchased  manhood,  office-proof ; 
Who  on  his  round  of  duty  walks  erect. 

And  leaves  it  only  rich  in  self-respect,  — 

As  More  maintained  his  virtue’s  lofty  port 
In  the  Eighth  Henry’s  base  and  bloody  court. 
As,  in  our  time,  unawed  by  brutal  force. 
Unbribed  by  party,  Eeeder  held  his  course. 
But,  if  exceptions  here  and  there  are  found, 
AVho  tread  thus  safely  on  enchanted  ground. 
The  normal  type,  the  fitting  symbol  still 
Of  those  who  fatten  at  the  public  mill. 

Is  the  chained  dog  beside  his  master’s  door. 
Or  Circe’s  victim,  feeding  on  all  four  ! 

Give  me  the  heroes  who,  at  tuck  of  drum. 
Salute  thy  staff,  immortal  Quattlebum  ! 


THE  PANORAMA. 


n 


Or  they  who,  doubly  armed  with  vote  and  guii, 
Following  thy  lead,  illustrious  Atchison, 

Their  drunken  franchise  shift  from  scene  to  scene. 
As  tile-beard  Jourdan  did  his  guillotine  !  — 

Father  than  him  who,  born  beneath  our  skies. 

To  Slavery’s  hand  its  supplest  tool  supplies,  — 
The  party  felon  whose  unblushing  face 
Looks  from  the  pillory  of  his  bribe  of  place. 

And  coolly  makes  a  merit  of  disgrace,  — 

Points  to  the  footmarks  of  indignant  scorn, 

Shows  the  deep  scars  of  satire’s  tossing  horn  ; 

And  passes  to  his  credit  side  the  sum 
Of  all  that  makes  a  scoundrel’s  martyrdom  ! 

Who  knows  not  well  these  cankers  of  the  North, 
These  modern  Esaus,  bartering  rights  for  broth  ? 
Taxing  our  justice,  with  their  double  claim, 

As  fools  for  pity,  and  as  knaves  for  blame  ; 

Who,  urged  by  party,  sect,  or  trade,  withiu 
The  fell  embrace  of  Slavery’s  sphere  of  sin. 

Part  at  the  outset  with  their  moral  sense. 

The  watchful  angel  set  for  Truth’s  defence  ; 
Confound  all  contrasts,  good  and  ill ;  reverse 
The  poles  of  life,  its  blessing  and  its  curse  ; 


9 


B 


18 


THE  PANORAMA. 


And  lose  thenceforth  from  their  perverted  sight 
The  eternal  difference  ’twixt  the  wrong  and  right ; 
To  them  the  Law  is  but  the  iron  span 
That  girds  the  ankles  of  imbruted  man  ; 

To  them  the  Gospel  has  no  higher  aim 
Than  simple  sanction  of  the  master’s  claim, 
Dragged  in  the  slime  of  Slavery’s  loathsome  trail, 
Like  Ghalier’s  Bible  at  his  ass’s  tail ! 

Such  are  the  men  who,  with  instinctive  dread. 
Whenever  Freedom  lifts  her  drooping  head, 

Make  prophet-tripods  of  their  office-stools, 

And  scare  the  nurseries  and  the  village  schools 
With  dire  presage  of  ruin  grim  and  great, 

A  broken  Union  and  a  foundered  State  ! 

Such  are  the  patriots,  self-bound  to  the  stake 
Of  office,  martyrs  for  their  country’s  sake  : 

Who  fill  themselves  the  hungry  jaws  of  Fate, 

And  by  their  loss  of  manhood  save  the  State. 

In  the  wide  gulf  themselves  like  Curtius  throw. 
And  test  the  virtues  of  cohesive  dough  ; 

As  tropic  monkeys,  linking  heads  and  tails. 

Bridge  o’er  some  toiTent  of  Ecuador’s  vales  I 


THE  P  A  X  0  R  A  M  A . 


19 


Such  are  the  men  who  in  your  churches  rave 
To  swearing  point,  at  mention  of  the  slave, 
AVhen  some  poor  parson,  haply  unawares, 
Stammers  of  freedom  in  his  timid  prayers  ; 

\Tho,  if  some  foot-sore  negro  through  the  town 
Steals  northward,  volunteer  to  hunt  him  down. 
Or,  if  some  neighbor,  flying  from  disease. 

Courts  the  mild  balsam  of  the  Southern  breeze. 
With  hue  and  cry  pursue  him  on  his  track. 

And  write  Free-aoiler  on  the  poor  man’s  back. 
Such  are  the  men  who  leave  the  pedler’s  cart. 
While  faring  South,  to  learn  the  driver’s  art. 

Or,  in  white  neekcloth,  soothe  with  pious  aim 
The  graceful  sorrows  of  some  languid  dame. 
Who,  from  the  wreck  of  her  bereavement,  saves 
The  double  charm  of  widowhood  and  slaves  !  — 
Pliant  and  apt,  they  lose  no  chance  to  show 
To  what  base  depths  apostasy  can  go  ; 

Outdo  the  natives  in  their  readiness 
To  roast  a  negro,  or  to  mob  a  press ; 

Poise  a  tarred  schoolmate  on  the  lyncher’s  rail. 
Or  make  a  bonfire  of  their  birth-place  mail  I 


20 


THE  PAU’ORAMA. 


So  some  poor  wretch,  whose  lips  no  longer  bear 
The  sacred  burden  of  his  mother’s  prayer, 

By  fear  impelled,  or  lust  of  gold  enticed, 

Turns  to  the  Crescent  from  the  Cross  of  Christ, 
And,  over-acting  in  superfluous  zeal. 

Crawls  prostrate  where  the  faithful  only  kneel. 
Out-howls  the  Dervish,  hugs  his  rags  to  court 
The  squalid  Santon’s  sanctity  of  dirt ; 

And,  when  beneath  tlie  city  gateway’s  span 
Biles  slow  and  long  the  Meccan  caravan. 

And  through  its  midst,  pursued  by  Islam’s  prayers. 
The  prophet’s  Word  some  favored  camel  bears, 

The  marked  apostate  has  his  place  assigned 
The  Koran-bearer’s  sacred  rump  behind. 

With  brush  and  pitcher  following,  grave  and  mute. 
In  meek  attendance  on  the  holy  brute  1 

Men  of  the  North  !  beneath  your  very  eyes. 

By  hearth  and  home,  your  real  danger  lies. 

Still  day  by  day  some  hold  of  freedom  falls. 
Through  home-bred  traitors  fed  within  its  walls. — 
Men  whom  yourselves  with  vote  and  purse  sustain. 
At  posts  of  honor,  influence,  and  gain  ; 


THE  PANORAMA. 


21 


The  right  of  Slavery  to  your  sons  to  teach, 

And  “  South-side  ”  Gospels  in  your  pulpits  preach  ; 
Transfix  the  Law  to  ancient  freedom  dear 
On  the  sharp  point  of  her  subverted  spear, 

And  imitate  upon  her  cushion  plump 

The  mad  Missourian  lynching  from  his  stump. 

Till  even  Jeffreys’  envious  ghost  complains 
Of  dangerous  rivals  in  your  Griers  and  Kanes  ;  — 
Or,  in  your  name  upon  the  Senate’s  floor 
Yield  up  to  Slavex’y  all  it  asks,  and  more ; 

And,  ere  your  dull  ejms  open  to  the  cheat. 

Sell  yoxxr  old  hoxnestead  underneath  yoixr  feet ! 

While  such  as  these  your  loftiest  outlooks  hold, 
While  truth  and  conscience  with  your  wares  ax'G  sold. 
While  grave-browed  merchants  band  themselves  to  aid 
Aix  annxxal  man-hunt  for  their  Southern  trade. 

What  xnoral  power  within  your  grasp  remains 
To  stay  the  mischief  on  Nebraska’s  plains  ?  — 

High  as  the  tides  of  genex’ous  impulse  flow. 

As  far  rolls  back  the  selfish  undertow  : 

And  all  your  brave  resolves,  though  aimed  as  true 
As  the  horse-pistol  Balmawhapple  drew. 

To  Slavery’s  bastions  lend  as  slight  a  shock 
As  the  poor  trooper’s  shot  to  Stirling  rock  ! 


22 


THE  PANORAMA. 


Yet,  while  the  need  of  Freedom’s  cause  demands 
The  earnest  efforts  of  your  hearts  and  hands, 

Urged  by  all  motives  that  can  prompt  the  heart 
To  prayer  and  toil  and  manhood’s  manliest  part ; 
Though  to  the  soul’s  deep  tocsin  nature  joins 
The  warning  whisper  of  her  Orphic  pines. 

The  north  wind’s  anger,  and  the  south  wind’s  sigli, 
The  midnight  sword-dance  of  the  northern  sky, 

And,  to  the  ear  that  bends  above  the  sod 
Of  the  green  grave-mounds  in  the  Fields  of  God, 

In  low,  deep  murmurs  of  rebuke  or  cheer. 

The  land’s  dead  fathers  speak  their  hope  or  fear  ; 
Yet  let  not  passion  wrest  from  Season’s  hand 
The  guiding  rein  and  symbol  of  command. 

Blame  not  the  caution  proffering  to  your  zeal 
A  well-meant  drag  upon  its  hurrying  wheel, 

Nor  chide  the  man  whose  honest  doubt  extends 
To  the  means  only,  not  the  righteous  ends  : 

Nor  fail  to  weigh  the  scruples  and  the  fears 
Of  milder  natures  and  serener  years. 

In  the  long  strife  with  evil  which  began 
With  the  first  lapse  of  new-created  man. 

Wisely  and  well  has  Providence  assigned 
To  each  his  part,  —  some  forward,  some  behind  ; 


THE  PANORAMA. 


23 


And  they,  too,  serve,  who  temper  and  restrain 
The  o’erwarm  heart  that  sets  on  fire  the  brain. 

True  to  yourselves,  feed  Freedom’s  altar-flame 
With  what  you  have  ;  let  others  do  the  same. 

Spare  timid  doubters  ;  set  like  flint  your  face 
Against  the  self-sold  knaves  of  gain  and  place  : 

Pity  the  weak  ;  but  with  unsparing  hand 
Cast  out  the  traitors  who  infest  the  land,  — 

From  bar,  press,  pulpit,  cast  them  everywhere, 

By  dint  of  fasting,  if  you  fail  by  prayer. 

And  in  their  place  bring  men  of  antique  mould. 

Like  the  grave  fathers  of  your  Age  of  Gold,  — 
Statesmen  like  those  who  sought  the  primal  fount 
Of  righteous  law,  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount ; 
Lawyers  who  prize,  like  Quincy  (to  our  day 
Still  spared.  Heaven  bless  him  !),  honor  more  than 

pay, 

And  Christian  jurists,  starry-pure,  like  Jay; 
Preachers  like  Woolman,  or  like  them  who  bore 
The  faith  of  Wesley  to  our  western  shore. 

And  held  no  convert  genuine  till  he  broke 
Alike  his  servants’  and  the  Devil’s  yoke  ; 

And  priests  like  him  who  Newport’s  market  trod. 
And  o’er  its  slave-ships  shook  the  bolts  of  God ! 


24 


THE  PANORAMA. 


So  shall  your  power,  with  a  wise  prudence  used, 
Strong  hut  forbearing,  firm  but  not  abused, 

In  kindly  keeping  with  the  good  of  all, 

The  nobler  maxims  of  the  past  recall. 

Her  natural  home-born  right  to  Freedom  give. 

And  leave  her  foe  his  robber-right  —  to  live. 

Live,  as  the  snake  does  in  his  noisome  feu  ! 

Live,  as  the  wolf  does  in  his  bone-strewn  den  ! 

Live,  clothed  with  cursing  like  a  robe  of  flame. 

The  focal  point  of  million-fingered  shame  ! 

Live,  till  the  Southron,  who,  with  all  his  faults 
Has  manly  instincts,  in  his  pride  revolts. 

Lashes  from  off  him,  midst  the  glad  world’s  cheers. 
The  hideous  night-mare  of  his  dream  of  years. 

And  lifts,  self-prompted,  with  his  own  right  hand. 
The  vile  incumbrance  from  his  glorious  land  I 

So,  wheresoe’er  our  destiny  sends  forth 
Its  widening  circles  to  the  South  or  North, 
Where’er  our  banner  flaunts  beneath  the  stars 
Its  mimic  splendors  and  its  cloud-like  bars. 

There  shall  Free  Labor’s  hardy  children  stand 
The  equal  sovereigns  of  a  slaveless  land. 


THE  PANORAMA. 


25 


And  when  at  last  the  hunted  bison  tires, 

And  dies  overtaken  by  the  squatter’s  fires  ; 

And  westward,  wave  on  wave,  the  living  flood 
Breaks  on  the  snow-line  of  majestic  Hood ; 

And  lonely  Shasta  listening  hears  the  tread 
Of  Europe’s  fair-haired  children,  Efesper-led  ; 

And,  gazing  downward  through  his  hoar-locks,  sees 
The  tawny  Asian  climb  his  giant  knees. 

The  Eastern  sea  shall  hush  his  waves  to  hear 
Pacific’s  surf-beat  answer  Freedom’s  cheer, 

.Vnd  one  long  rolling  fire  of  triumph  run 
Between  the  sunrise  and  the  sunset  gun  !  ” 


My  task  is  done.  The  Showman  and  his  show, 
Themselves  but  shadows,  into  shadows  go  ; 

And,  if  no  song  of  idlesse  I  have  sung, 

Xor  tints  of  beauty  on  the  canvas  flung, — 

If  the  harsh  numbers  grate  on  tender  ears, 

And  the  rough  picture  overwrought  appears,  — 
With  deeper  coloring,  with  a  sterner  blast. 

Before  my  soul  a  voice  and  vision  passed. 

Such  as  might  Milton’s  jarring  trump  require. 

Or  glooms  of  Dante  fringed  with  lurid  fire. 


c 


26 


THE  PANORAMA. 


0,  not  of  choice,  for  themes  of  piiblic  wrong 
I  leave  the  green  and  pleasant  paths  of  song  — 

The  mild,  sweet  words,  which  soften  and  adorn. 
For  griding  taunt  and  bitter  laugh  of  scorn. 

More  dear  to  me  some  song  of  private  worth, 

Some  homely  idyl  of  my  native  North, 

Some  summer  pastoral  of  her  inland  vales 

And  sea-brown  hamlets,  through  where  misty  gales 

Flit  the  dim  ghosts  of  unreturning  sails  — 

Lost  barks  at  parting  hung  from  stem  to  helm 
AVith  prayers  of  love  like  dreams  on  Virgil’s  elm  ; 
Nor  private  grief  nor  malice  hold  my  pen  ; 

I  owe  but  kindness  to  my  fellow-men. 

And,  South  or  North,  wherever  hearts  of  prayer 
Their  woes  and  weakness  to  our  Father  bear, 
AVherever  fruits  of  Christian  love  are  found 
In  holy  lives,  to  me  is  holy  ground. 

But  the  time  passes.  It  were  vain  to  crave 
A  late  indulgence.  AAHiat  I  had  I  gave. 

Forget  the  poet,  but  his  warning  heed. 

And  shame  his  poor  word  with  your  nobler  deed. 


OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 


SUMMER  BY  THE  LAKE-SIDE. 


1  . - NOON. 

^Uhite  clouds,  whose  shadows  haunt  the  deep. 
Light  mists,  whose  soft  embraces  keep 
The  sunshine  on  the  hills  asleep  1 

0,  isles  of  calm  !  —  0,  dark,  still  wood  ! 

And  stiller  skies  that  overbrood 
Your  rest  with  deeper  quietude  ! 

0,  shapes  and  hues,  dim  beckoning,  through 
Yon  mountain  gaps,  my  longing  view 
Beyond  the  purple  and  the  blue, 

To  stiller  sea  and  greener  land, 

And  softer  lights  and  airs  more  bland. 

And  skies  —  the  hollow  of  God’s  hand  ! 

Transfused  through  you,  0  mountain  friends  ! 
AUith  mine  your  solemn  spirit  blends. 

And  life  no  more  hath  separate  ends. 


30 


SUMMER  BY  THE  LAKE-SIDE. 


I  read  each  misty  mountain  sign, 

I  know  the  voice  of  wave  and  pine, 
And  I  am  yours,  and  ye  are  mine. 

Life’s  burdens  fall,  its  discords  cease, 
I  lapse  into  the  glad  release 
Of  nature’s  own  exceeding  peace. 

0,  welcome  calm  of  heart  and  mind  ! 
As  falls  yon  fir-tree’s  loosened  rind 
To  leave  a  tenderer  growth  behind. 


So  fall  the  weary  years  away  ; 

A  child  again,  my  head  I  lay 
Upon  the  lap  of  this  sweet  day. 

This  western  wind  hath  Lethean  powers. 
Yon  noon-day  cloud  nepenthe  showers. 
The  lake  is  white  with  lotus-flowers  ! 

Even  Duty’s  voice  is  faint  and  low. 

And  slumberous  Conscience,  waking  slow. 
Forgets  her  blotted  scroll  to  show. 


SUMMER  BY  THE  LAKE-SIDE. 


31 


The  Shadow  which  pursues  us  all, 

Whose  ever-nearing  steps  appall, 

Whose  voice  we  hear  behind  us  call  — 

That  Shadow  blends  with  mountain  gray. 
It  speaks  but  what  the  light  waves  say  — 
Death  walks  apart  from  Fear  to-day  ! 

Rocked  on  her  breast,  these  pines  and  I 
Alike  on  Nature’s  love  rely  ; 

And  equal  seems  to  live  or  die. 

Assui’ed  that  He,  whose  presence  fills 
"With  light  the  spaces  of  these  hills. 

No  evil  to  His  creatures  wills. 

The  simple  faith  remains,  that  He 
Will  do,  whatever  that  may  be. 

The  best  alike  for  man  and  tree. 

What  mosses  over  one  shall  grow. 

What  light  and  life  the  other  know, 
Unanxious,  leaving  Him  to  show. 


SUMMER  BY  THE  LAKE-SIDE. 


II. - EVENING. 

You  mountain’s  side  is  black  with  night, 

While,  broad-orbed,  o’er  its  gleaming  crown 

The  moon,  slow-rounding  into  sight, 

On  the  hushed  inland  sea  looks  down. 

How  start  to  light  the  clustering  isles. 

Each  silver-hemmed  !  How  sharply  show 

The  shadows  of  their  rocky  piles. 

And  tree-tops  in  the  wave  below  ! 

How  far  and  strange  the  mountains  seem. 
Dim-looming  through  the  pale,  still  light ! 

The  vague,  vast  grouping  of  a  dream, 

They  stretch  into  the  solemn  night. 

Beneath,  lake,  wood,  and  peopled  vale. 
Hushed  by  that  presence  grand  and  grave. 

Are  silent,  save  the  cricket’s  wail, 

And  low  response  of  leaf  and  wave. 

Fair  scenes  1  whereto  the  Day  and  Night 
Make  rival  love,  I  leave  ye  soon. 

What  time  before  the  eastern  light 
The  pale  ghost  of  the  setting  moon 


SUMMER  BY  THE  LAKE-SIDE. 


o  o 
OO 


Shall  hide  behind  yon  rocky  spines, 

And  the  young  archer,  Morn,  shall  break 

His  arrows  on  the  mountain  pines. 

And,  golden-sandalled,  walk  the  lake  ! 

Farewell !  around  this  smiling  bay 
Gay-hearted  Health,  and  Life  in  bloom, 

With  lighter  steps  than  mine,  may  stray 
In  radiant  summers  yet  to  come. 

But  none  shall  more  regretful  leave 
These  waters  and  these  hills  than  I ; 

Or,  distant,  fonder  dream  how  eve 
Or  dawn  is  painting  wave  and  sky  ; 

How  rising  moons  shine  sad  and  mild 
On  wooded  isle  and  silvering  bay  ; 

Or  setting  suns  beyond  the  piled 
And  purple  mountains  lead  the  day ; 

Nor  laughing  girl,  nor  bearding  boy. 

Nor  full-pulsed  manhood,  lingering  here. 

Shall  add,  to  life’s  abounding  joy. 

The  charmed  repose  to  suffering  dear. 

3 


34 


SUMMER  BY  THE  LAKE-SIDE. 


Still  waits  kind  Natui’e  to  impart 
Her  choicest  gifts  to  such  as  gain 

An  entrance  to  her  loving  heart 

Through  the  sharp  discipline  of  pain. 

Forever  from  the  Hand  that  takes 
One  blessing  from  us  others  fall ; 

And,  soon  or  late,  our  Father  makes 
Ills  perfect  recompense  to  all ! 

0,  watched  by  Silence  and  the  Night, 
And  folded  in  the  strong  embrace 

Of  the  great  mountains,  with  the  light 
Of  the  sweet  heavens  upon  thy  face. 

Lake  of  the  Northland  !  keep  thy  dower 
Of  beauty  still,  and  while  above 

Thy  solemn  mountains  speak  of  power. 
Be  thou  the  mirror  of  God’s  love. 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  T  H  E  B  A  I  D  . 


0,  STRONG,  upwelling  prayers  of  faith, 
From  inmost  founts  of  life  ye  start  — 

The  spirit’s  pulse,  the  vital  breath 
Of  soul  and  heart ! 

From  pastoral  toil,  from  traffic’s  din, 
Alone,  in  crowds,  at  home,  abroad. 

Unheard  of  man,  ye  enter  in 
The  ear  of  God. 

Ye  brook  no  forced  and  measured  tasks. 
Nor  weary  rote,  nor  formal  chains  ; 

The  simple  heart,  that  freely  asks 
In  love,  obtains. 

For  man,  the  living  temple  is  : 

The  mercy-seat  and  cherubim. 

And  all  the  holy  mysteries. 

He  bears  with  him 


36  THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  THEBAID. 

And  most  avails  the  prayer  of  love, 

Which,  wordless,  shapes  itself  in  deeds. 

And  wearies  Heaven  for  naught  above 
Our  common  needs. 

Which  brings  to  God’s  all  perfect  will 
That  trust  of  His  undoubting  child, 

'Whereby  all  seeming  good  and  ill 
Are  reconciled. 

And,  seeking  not  for  special  signs 
Of  favor,  is  content  to  fall 

Within  the  providence  which  shines 
And  rains  on  all. 

Alone,  the  Thebaid  hermit  leaned 
At  noon-time  o’er  the  sacred  word. 

Was  it  an  angel  or  a  fiend 
Whose  voice  he  heard  ? 

It  broke  the  desert’s  hush  of  awe, 

A  human  utterance,  sweet  and  mild  ; 

And,  looking  up,  the  hermit  saw 
A  little  child. 


THE  HERMIT  OP  THE  THEBAID. 


37 


A  child,  with  wonder-widened  eyes, 

O’erawed  and  troubled  by  the  sight 

Of  hot,  red  sands,  and  brazen  skies. 

And  anchorite. 

"  What  dost  thou  here,  poor  man  ?  No  shade 
Of  cool,  green  doums,  nor  grass,  nor  well. 

Nor  corn,  nor  vines.”  The  hermit  said  : 

“  With  God  I  dwell. 

"  Alone  with  Him  in  this  great  calm, 

I  live  not  by  the  outward  sense  ; 

My  Nile  his  love,  my  sheltering  palm 
Ills  providence.” 

The  child  gazed  round  him.  "  Does  God  live 
Here  only  ?  —  where  the  desert’s  rim 

Is  green  with  corn,  at  morn  and  eve. 

We  pray  to  Him. 

"  My  brother  tills  beside  the  Nile 
His  little  field  :  beneath  the  leaves 

My  sisters  sit  and  spin  the  while. 

My  mother  weaves. 


38  THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  THEBAID., 

“  And  when  the  millet’s  ripe  heads  fall, 

And  all  the  bean-field  hangs  in  pod, 

My  mother  smiles,  and  says  that  all 
Are  gifts  from  God. 

“  And  when,  to  share  our  evening  meal. 

She  calls  the  stranger  at  the  door. 

She  says  God  fills  the  hands  that  deal 
Food  to  the  poor.” 

Adown  the  hermit’s  wasted  cheeks 
Glistened  the  flow  of  human  tears  ; 

"  Dear  Lord  !  ”  he  said,  “  Thy  angel  speaks, 
Thy  servant  hears.” 

Within  his  arms  the  child  he  took. 

And  thought  of  home  and  life  with  men  ; 

And  all  his  pilgrim  feet  forsook 
Returned  again. 

The  palmy  shadows  cool  and  long. 

The  eyes  that  smiled  through  lavish  locks, 

Home’s  cradle-hymn  and  harvest-song, 

And  bleat  of  flocks. 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  THEBAID.  39 


“0,  child  I  he  said,  “  thou  teachest  me 
There  is  no  place  where  God  is  not ; 

That  love  will  make,  where’er  it  be, 

A  holy  spot.” 

He  rose  from  off  the  desert  sand, 

•  And,  leaning  on  his  staff  of  thorn, 

Went,  with  the  young  child,  hand  in  hand, 
Like  night  with  morn. 

They  crossed  the  desert’s  burning  line. 
And  heard  the  palm-tree’s  rustling  fan, 

The  Nile-bird’s  cry,  the  low  of  kine, 

And  voice  of  man. 

Unquestioning,  his  childish  guide 
He  followed,  as  the  small  hand  led 

To  where  a  woman,  gentle-eyed. 

Her  distaff  fed. 

She  rose,  she  clasped  her  truant  boy, 

She  thanked  the  stranger  with  her  eyes  ; 

The  hermit  gazed  in  doubt  and  joy 
And  dumb  surprise. 


40  THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  THEBAID. 


And,  lo  !  —  with  sudden  warmth  and  light 
A  tender  memory  thrilled  his  frame  ; 

New-born,  the  world-lost  anchorite 
A  man  became. 

“  0,  sister  of  El  Zara’s  race. 

Behold  me  !  — had  we  not  one  mother  ?  ” 

She  gazed  into  the  stranger’s  face  ;  — 

“  Thou  art  my  brother  ?  ” 

“  0,  kin  of  blood  !  —  Thy  life  of  use 
And  patient  trust  is  more  than  mine  ; 

And  wiser  than  the  gray  recluse 
This  child  of  thine. 

For,  taught  of  him  whom  God  hath  sent. 
That  toil  is  praise,  and  love  is  prayer, 

I  come,  life’s  cares  and  pains  content 
"With  thee  to  share.” 

Even  as  his  foot  the  threshold  crossed. 

The  hermit’s  better  life  began  ; 

Its  holiest  saint  the  Thebaid  lost. 

And  found  a  man  I 


BURNS. 


ON  RECEIVINQ  A  SPRIG  OP  HEATHER  IN  BLOSSOM. 


No  more  these  simple  flowers  belong 
To  Scottish  maid  and  lover  ; 

Sown  in  the  common  soil  of  song, 

They  bloom  the  wide  world  over. 

In  smiles  and  tears,  in  sun  and  showers. 
The  minstrel  and  the  heather. 

The  deathless  singer  and  the  flowers 
He  sang  of  live  together. 

Wild  heather-bells  and  Robert  Burns  ! 
The  moorland  flower  and  peasant ! 

How,  at  their  mention,  memory  turns 
Her  pages  old  and  pleasant ! 

The  gray  sky  wears  again  its  gold 
And  purple  of  adorning. 

And  manhood’s  noonday  shadows  hold 
The  dews  of  boyhood’s  morning. 

D 


42 


BURNS. 


The  dews  that  washed  the  dust  and  soil 
From  otF  the  wings  of  pleasure, 

The  sky,  that  flecked  the  ground  of  toil 
With  golden  threads  of  leisure. 

I  call  to  mind  the  summer  day. 

The  early  harvest  mowing. 

The  sky  with  sun  and  clouds  at  play. 
And  flowers  with  breezes  blowing. 

I  hear  the  blackbird  in  the  corn. 

The  locust  in  the  haying ; 

And,  like  the  fabled  hunter’s  horn, 

Old  tunes  my  heart  is  playing. 

flow  oft  that  day,  with  fond  delay, 

I  sought  the  maple’s  shadow. 

And  sang  with  Burns  the  hours  away, 
Forgetful  of  the  meadow  1 

Bees  hummed,  birds  twittered,  over  head 
I  heard  the  squirrels  leaping. 

The  good  dog  listened  while  I  read. 

And  wagged  his  tail  in  keeping. 


BURNS. 


43 


I  watched  him  while  in  sportive  mood 
I  read  “  The  Twa  Dogs^  ”  story, 

And  half  believed  he  understood 
The  poet’s  allegory. 

Sweet  day,  sweet  songs  !  —  The  golden  hours 
Grew  brighter  for  that  singing. 

From  brook  and  bird  and  meadow  flowers 
A  dearer  welcome  bringing. 

New  light  on  home-seen  Nature  beamed, 

New  glory  over  Woman  ; 

And  daily  life  and  duty  seemed 
No  longer  poor  and  common. 

I  woke  to  find  the  simple  truth 
Of  fact  and  feeling  better 

Than  all  the  dreams  that  held  my  youth 
A  still  repining  debtor  ; 

That  Nature  gives  her  handmaid.  Art, 

The  themes  of^sweet  discoursing; 

The  tender  idyls  of  the  heart 
In  every  tongue  rehearsing. 


44 


BURNS. 


Why  dream  of  lands  of  gold  and  pearl, 
Of  loving  knight  and  lady, 

When  farmer  boy  and  barefoot  girl 
Were  wandering  there  already  ? 

I  saw  through  all  familiar  things 
The  romance  underlying ; 

The  joys  and  griefs  that  plume  the  wings 
Of  Fancy  skyward  flying. 

I  saw  the  same  blithe  day  return. 

The  same  sweet  fall  of  even. 

That  rose  on  wooded  Craigie-burn, 

/ 

And  sank  on  crystal  Devon. 

I  matched  with  Scotland’s  heathery  hills 
The  sweet-brier  and  the  clover  ; 

With  Ayr  and  Doon,  my  native  rills. 
Their  wood-hymns  chanting  over. 

O’er  rank  and  pomp,  as  he  had  seen, 

I  saw  the  Man  uprising  ; 

No  longer  common  or  unclean. 

The  child  of  God’s  baptizing  ! 


BURNS. 


45 


With  clearer  eyes  I  saw  the  worth 
Of  life  among-  the  lowly ; 

The  Bible  at  his  Cotter’s  hearth 
Had  made  my  own  more  holy. 

And,  if  at  times  an  evil  strain, 

To  lawless  love  appealing-. 

Broke  in  upon  the  sweet  refrain 
Of  pure  and  healthful  feeling-. 

It  died  upon  the  eye  and  ear. 

No  inward  answer  gaining  ; 

No  heart  had  I  to  see  or  hear 
The  discord  and  the  staining. 

Let  those  who  never  erred  forget 
His  worth,  in  vain  bewailings  ; 

Sweet  Soul  of  Song  1  —  I  own  my  debt 
Uncancelled  by  his  failings  ! 

Lament  who  will  the  ribald  line 
Which  tells  his  lapse  from  duty. 

How  kissed  the  maddening  lips  of  wine 
Or  wanton  ones  of  beauty  ; 


BURNS. 


i6 


But  think,  while  falls  that  shade  between 
The  erring  one  and  Heaven, 

That  he  who  loved  like  Magdalen, 

Like  her  may  be  forgiven. 

Not  his  the  song  whose  thunderous  chime 
Eternal  echoes  render  — 

The  mournful  Tuscan’s  haunted  rhyme. 
And  Milton’s  starry  splendor  ! 

But  who  his  human  heart  has  laid 
To  Nature’s  bosom  nearer? 

Who  sweetened  toil  like  him,  or  paid 
To  love  a  tribute  dearer  ? 

Through  all  his  tuneful  art,  how  strong 
The  human  feeling  gushes  ! 

The  very  moonlight  of  his  song 
Is  warm  with  smiles  and  blushes  ! 

Give  lettered  pomp  to  teeth  of  Time, 

So  ‘  Bonnie  Boon  ’  but  tarry  ; 

Blot  out  the  Epic’s  stately  rhyme, 

But  spare  his  Highland  Mary  I 


WILLIAM  FORSTER.* 


Thk  years  are  many  since  his'  hand 
Was  laid  upon  my  head, 

Too  weak  and  young  to  understand 
The  serious  words  he  said. 

Yet,  often  now  the  good  man’s  look 
Before  me  seems  to  swim, 

As  if  some  inward  feeling  took 
The  outward  guise  of  him. 


*  William  Forster,  of  Norwich,  England,  died  in  East  Tennessee,  in 
the  first  month,  1854,  while  engaged  in  presenting  to  the  governors 
of  the  States  of  this  Union  the  address  of  his  religious  society,  on  the 
evils  of  slavery.  He  was  the  relative  and  coadjutor  of  the  Buxtons, 
Gurneys,  and  Frys  ;  and  his  whole  life,  extending  almost  to  three 
score  and  ten  years,  was  a  pure  and  beautiful  example  of  Christian 
benevolence.  He  had  travelled  over  Europe,  and  visited  most  of  its 
sovereigns,  to  plead  against  the  slave-trade  and  slavery  ;  and  had 
twice  before  made  religious  visits  to  this  country,  under  impressions 
of  religious  duty. 


48 


WILLIAM  FORSTER. 


As  if,  in  passion^s  heated  war, 

Or  near  temptation’s  charm, 

Through  him  the  low-voiced  monitor 
Forewarned  me  of  the  harm. 

Stranger  and  pilgrim  !  —  from  that  day 
Of  meeting,  first  and  last. 

Wherever  Duty’s  pathway  lay. 

His  reverent  steps  have  passed. 

The  poor  to  feed,  the  lost  to  seek, 

To  proffer  life  to  death, 

Hope  to  the  erring — to  the  weak. 

The  strength  of  his  own  faith. 

To  plead  the  captive’s  right ;  remove 
The  sting  of  hate  from  Law ; 

And  soften  in  the  fire  of  love 
The  hardened  steel  of  War. 

He  walked  the  dark  world,  in  the  mild. 
Still  guidance  of  the  Light ; 

In  tearful  tenderness  a  child, 

A  strong  man  in  the  right. 


WILLIAM  FOESTER. 


49 


From  what  great  perils,  on  his  way, 
He  found,  in  prayer,  release  ; 
Through  wdiat  abjmmal  shadows  lay 
Ills  pathway  unto  peace, 

(lod  knoweth  :  wm  could  only  see 
The  tranquil  strength  he  gained  ; 
The  bondage  lost  in  liberty, 

The  fear  in  love  unfeigned. 


And  I — my  youthful  fancies  grown 
The  habit  of  the  man, 

AVhose  field  of  life  by  angels  sown 
The  wilding  vines  overran  — 

Low  bowed  in  silent  gratitude. 

My  manhood^s  heart  enjoys 
That  reverence  for  the  pure  and  good 
Which  blessed  the  dreaming  boy's. 

Still  shines  the  light  of  holy  lives 
Like  star-beams  over  doubt ; 

Each  sainted  memory,  Christ-like,  drives 

Some  dark  possession  out. 

4  E 


50 


WILLIAM  POBSTER. 


0  friend  !  0  brother  1  not  in  vain 
Thy  life  so  calm  and  true, 

The  silver  dropping  of  the  rain, 

The  fall  of  summer  dew  ! 

How  many  burdened  hearts  have  prayed 
Their  lives  like  thine  might  be  I 
But  more  shall  pray  henceforth  for  aid 
To  lay  them  down  like  thee. 

With  weary  hand,  yet  steadfast  will, 

In  old  age  as  in  youth. 

Thy  Master  found  thee  sowing  still 
The  good  seed  of  His  truth. 

As  on  thy  task-field  closed  the  day 
In  golden-skied  decline. 

His  angel  met  thee  on  the  way. 

And  lent  his  arm  to  thine. 

Thy  latest  care  for  man  —  thy  last 
Of  earthly  thought  a  prayer  — 

0,  who  thy  mantle,  backward  cast. 

Is  worthy  now  to  wear  ? 


WILLIAM  FORSTER. 


51 


Methinks  the  mound  which  marks  thy  bed 
Might  bless  our  land  and  save. 

As  rose,  of  old,  to  life  the  dead 
Who  touched  the  prophet’s  grave  ! 


RANTOUL* 


One  day,  along  the  electric  wire 
Ilis  manly  word  for  Freedom  sped  ; 

We  came  next  morn :  that  tongue  of  fire 
Said  only,  “  He  who  spake  is  dead  !  ” 

Dead  !  while  his  voice  was  living  yet. 

In  echoes  round  the  pillared  dome  ! 

Dead  !  while  his  blotted  page  lay  wet 
With  themes  of  state  and  loves  of  liome  ! 

Dead !  in  that  crowning  grace  of  time. 

That  triumph  of  life’s  zenith  hour! 

Dead  !  while  we  watched  his  manliood’s  prime 
Break  from  the  slow  bud  into  flower ! 

*  No  more  fitting  inscription  could  be  placed  on  the  tomb-stone  of 
Robert  Rantoul  than  this  :  “  He  died  at  his  post  in  Congress,  and  his 
last  words  were  a  protest  in  the  name  of  Democracy  against  the 
Fugitive  Slave  Law.” 


R  A  N  T  0  U  L  . 


53 


Dead  !  he  so  great,  and  strong,  and  wise, 

AViiile  the  mean  thousands  yet  drew  breath  ; 

How  deepened,  through  that  dread  surprise. 
The  m^’^stery  and  the  awe  of  death  I 

From  the  high  place  whereon  our  votes 
Had  borne  him,  clear,  calm,  earnest,  fell 

His  first  words,  like  the  prelude  notes 
Uf  some  great  anthem  yet  to  swell. 

seemed  to  see  our  flag  unfurled. 

Our  champion  waiting  in  his  place 

For  the  last  battle  of  the  world  — ■ 

The  Armageddon  of  the  race. 

Through  him  we  hoped  to  speak  the  word 
Which  wins  the  freedom  of  a  land  ; 

And  lift,  for  human  right,  the  sword 

Which  dropped  from  Hampden’s  dying  hand. 

For  he  had  sat  at  Sidney’s  feet. 

And  walked  with  Pym  and  Vane  apart ; 

And,  through  the  centuries,  felt  the  beat 
Of  Freedom’s  march  in  Cromwell’s  heart. 


54 


R  A  N  T  0  U  L  . 


lie  knew  the  paths  the  wortliies  held, 

AVhere  England’s  best  and  wisest  trod : 

And,  lingering,  drank  the  springs  that  welled 
Beneath  the  touch  of  Milton’s  rod. 

Xo  wild  enthusiast  of  the  right. 

Self-poised  and  clear,  he  showed  alway 

The  coolness  of  his  northern  night. 

The  ripe  repose  of  autumn’s  day. 

Ilis  steps  were  slow,  yet  forward  still 

lie  pressed  where  others  paused  or  failed  ; 

The  calm  star  clomb  with  constant  will  — 

The  restless  meteor  flashed  and  paled  ! 

Skilled  in  its  subtlest  wile,  he  knew 
And  owned  the  higher  ends  of  Law  ; 

Still  rose  majestic  on  his  view 

The  awful  Shape  the  schoolman  saw. 

Her  home  the  heart  of  God  ;  her  voice 
The  choral  harmonies  whereby 

The  stars,  through  all  their  spheres,  rejoice. 
The  rhythmic  rule  of  earth  and  sky  ! 


K  A  N  T  0  U  L  . 


55 


We  saw  his  great  powers  misapplied 
To  poor  ambitions  :  yet,  through  all, 

We  saw  him  take  the  weaker  side. 

And  right  the  wronged,  and  free  the  thrall. 

Now,  looking  o’er  the  frozen  North 
For  one  like  him  in  word  and  act, 

To  call  her  old,  free  spirit  forth. 

And  give  her  faith  the  life  of  fact  — 

To  break  her  party  bonds  of  shame. 

And  labor  with  the  zeal  of  him 
To  make  the  Democratic  name 
Of  Liberty  the  synonym  — 

We  sweep  the  land  from  hill  to  strand. 

We  seek  the  strong,  the  wise,  the  brave. 
And,  sad  of  heart,  return  to  stand 
In  silence  by  a  new-made  grave  ! 

There,  where  his  breezy  hills  of  home 
Look  out  upon  his  sail-white  seas. 

The  sounds  of  winds  and  waters  come. 

And  shape  themselves  to  words  like  these  : 


5G 


B  A  K  T  0  U  L  . 


"  '.Vhy,  murmuring’,  mourn  that  he,  whose  power 
Was  lent  to  Party  over  long, 

Heard  the  still  whisper  at  the  hour 
He  set  his  foot  on  Party  wrong  ? 

“  The  human  life  that  closed  so  well 
No  lapse  of  folly  now  can  stain ; 

The  lips  whence  Freedom’s  protest  fell 
No  meaner  thought  can  now  profane. 

“  Mightier  than  living  voice  his  grave 
That  lofty  protest  utters  o’er  ; 

Through  roaring  wind  and  smiting  wave 
It  speaks  his  hate  of  wrong  once  more. 

“  Men  of  the  North  !  your  weak  regret 
Is  wasted  here  ;  arise  and  pay 

To  freedom  and  to  him  your  debt, 

By  following  where  he  led  the  way  !  ” 


THE  DREAM  OF  PIO  NO  NO. 


It  chanced,  that  while  the  pious  troops  of  France 
Fought  in  the  crusade  Pio  Nono  preached, 

What  time  the  holy  Bourbons  stayed  his  hands 
(The  Hur  and  Aaron  meet  for  such  a  Moses), 
Stretched  forth  from  Naples  towards  rebellious  Rome 
To  bless  the  ministry  of  Oudinot, 

And  sanctify  his  iron  homilies 

And  sharp  persuasions  of  the  bayonet. 

That  the  great  pontiff  fell  asleep,  and  dreamed. 

lie  stood  by  Lake  Tiberias,  in  the  sun 
Of  the  bright  Orient ;  and  beheld  the  lame, 

The  sick,  and  blind,  kneel  at  the  Master’s  feet, 

And  rise  up  whole.  And,  sweetly  over  all. 
Dropping  the  ladder  of  their  hymn  of  praise 
From  heaven  to  earth,  in  silver  rounds  of  song, 

He  heard  the  blessed  angels  sing  of  peace, 

Good-will  to  man,  and  glory  to  the  Lord. 


58 


THE  DREAM  OP  PIO  NONO. 


Then  one,  with  feet  unshod,  and  leathern  face 
Hardened  and  darkened  by  fierce  summer  suns 
And  hot  winds  of  the  desert,  closer  drew 
His  fisher’s  haick,  and  girded  up  his  loins. 

And  spake,  as  one  who  had  authority  : 

“  Come  thou  with  me.” 


Lake-side  and  eastern  sky 
And  the  sweet  song  of  angels  passed  away. 

And,  with  a  dream’s  alacrity  of  change. 

The  priest,  and  the  swart  fisher  by  his  side. 

Beheld  the  Eternal  City  lift  its  domes 
And  solemn  fanes  and  monumental  pomp 
Above  the  waste  Campagna.  On  the  hills 
The  blaze  of  burning  villas  rose  and  fell. 

And  momently  the  mortar’s  iron  throat 
Roai’ed  from  the  trenches  ;  and,  within  the  walls. 
Sharp  crash  of  shells,  low  groans  of  human  pain. 
Shout,  drum-beat,  and  the  clanging  larum-l)ell. 

And  tramp  of  hosts,  sent  up  a  mingled  sound, 

1  Lalf  wail  and  half  defiance.  As  they  passed 
The  gate  of  San  Pancrazio,  human  blood 
Flowed  ankle  high  about  them,  and  dead  men 
Choked  the  long  street  with  gashed  and  gory  piles  — 


THE  DREAM  OF  PIO  NO  NO. 


59 


A  gliastly  barricade  of  mangded  flesh, 

From  which,  at  times,  quivered  a  living  hand, 

And  white  lips  moved  and  moaned.  A  father  tore 
His  gray  hairs,  by  the  body  of  his  son. 

In  frenzy  ;  and  his  fair  young  daughter  wept 
On  his  old  bosom.  Suddenly  a  flash 
Clove  the  thick  sulphurous  air,  and  man  and  maid 
Sank,  crushed  and  mangled  by  the  shattering  shell. 

Then  spake  the  Galilean  :  "  Thou  hast  seen 
The  blessed  Master  and  his  works  of  love ; 

Look  now  on  thine  !  Hear’st  thou  the  angels  sing 
Above  this  open  hell  ?  Thou  God’s  high  priest  I 
Thou  the  Vicegerent  of  the  Prince  of  Peace  ! 

Thou  the  successor  of  his  chosen  ones  1 
I,  Peter,  fisherman  of  Galilee, 

In  the  dear  Master’s  name,  and  for  the  love 
Of  his  true  Church,  proclaim  thee  Antichrist, 

Alien  and  separate  from  his  holy  faith 
Wide  as  the  difference  between  death  and  life. 

The  hate  of  man  and  the  great  love  of  God  ! 
Hence,  and  repent !  ” 

Thereat  the  pontiff  woke, 
Trembling,  and  muttering  o’er  his  fearful  dream. 


60 


THE  DREAM  OF  PIO  NONO. 


"  Wliat  means  he  ?  ’’  cried  the  Bourbon, 
more 

Than  tliat  your  majesty  liath  all  too  well 
Catered  for  your  poor  guests,  and  that,  in 
The  Holy  Father’s  supper  troubleth  him,’ 
Said  Cardinal  Antonelli,  with  a  smile. 


“  Nothing 


sooth. 


T  A  U  L  E  R  . 


Tauler,  the  preacher,  walked,  one  antuinn  day. 
Without  the  walls  of  Strasburg,  by  the  Rhine, 
Pondering  the  solemn  Miracle  of  Life  ; 

As  one  who,  wandering  in  a  starless  night, 

Feels,  momently,  the  jar  of  unseen  waves, 

Ajid  hears  the  thunder  of  an  unknown  sea. 
Breaking  along  an  unimagin’d  shore. 

And  as  he  walked  he  prayed.  Even  the  same 
Old  prayer  with  which,  for  half  a  score  of  years, 
jNEorning,  and  noon,  and  evening,  lij)  and  heart 
Had  groaned  :  "  Have  pity  upon  me.  Lord  ! 

Tliou  scest,  while  teaching  others,  I  am  blind. 
Send  me  a  man  who  can  direct  my  steps  !  ” 

Then,  as  ho  mused,  he  hoard  along  his  path 
A  sound  as  of  an  old  man’s  staff  among 
The  dry,  dead  linden-leaves ;  and,  looking  up, 
lie  saw  a  stranger,  weak,  and  poor,  and  old. 


62 


T  A  IT  L  E  R  . 


“  Peace  be  unto  thee,  father  1  ”  Tauler  said  ; 

“  Grod  give  thee  a  good  day !  ”  The  old  man  raised 
Slowly  his  calm  blue  eyes.  “  I  thank  thee,  son  ; 

But  all  my  days  are  good,  and  none  are  ill.” 

"Wondering  thereat,  the  preacher  spake  again  ; 

"  God  give  thee  happy  life.”  The  old  man  smiled  ; 

''  I  never  am  unhappy.” 

Tauler  laid 

His  hand  upon  the  stranger’s  coarse  gray  sleeve  : 

“  Tell  me,  0  father,  what  thy  strange  words  mean. 

Surely  man’s  days  are  evil,  and  his  life 

Sad  as  the  grave  it  leads  to.”  “  Nay,  my  son. 

Our  times  are  in  God’s  hands,  and  all  our  days 
Are  as  our  needs  :  for  shadow  as  for  sun. 

For  cold  as  heat,  for  want  as  wealth,  alike 
Our  thanks  are  due,  since  that  is  best  which  is  ; 

And  that  which  is  not,  sharing  not  His  life. 

Is  evil  only  as  devoid  of  good. 

And  for  the  happiness  of  which  I  spake, 

I  find  it  in  submission  to  His  will. 

And  calm  trust  in  the  holy  Trinity 
Of  Knowledge,  Goodness,  and  Almighty  Power.” 


T  A  U  L  E  R  . 


63 


Silently  wondering,  for  a  little  space, 

Stood  the  great  preacher ;  then  he  spake  as  one 
"Who,  suddenly  grappling  with  a  haunting  thought 
Which  long  has  followed,  whispering  through  the 
dark 

Strange  terrors,  drags  it,  shrieking,  into  light : 

“  AYhat  if  God’s  will  consign  thee  hence  to  Hell  ?  ” 

“  Then,”  said  the  stranger,  cheerily,  “be  it  so. 
AVhat  Hell  may  be  I  know  not ;  this  I  know  — 

I  cannot  lose  the  presence  of  the  Lord  ; 

One  arm.  Humility,  takes  hold  upon 
His  dear  Humanity  ;  the  other.  Love, 

Clasps  his  Divinity.  So  where  I  go 

He  goes  ;  and  better  fire-walled  Hell  with  Him 

Than  golden-gated  Paradise  without.” 

Tears  sprang  in  Tauler’s  eyes.  A  sudden  light. 
Like  the  first  ray  which  fell  on  chaos,  clove 
Apart  the  shadow  wherein  he  had  walked 
Darkly  at  noon.  And,  as  the  strange  old  man 
AYent  his  slow  way,  until  his  silver  hair 
Set  like  the  white  moon  where  the  hills  of  vine 
Slope  to  the  Ehine,  he  bowed  his  head  and  said : 


64 


T  A  U  L  E  R  . 


“  My  prayer  is  ansAvered.  God  hath  sent  the  man 
Long  so^ight,  to  teach  me,  by  his  simple  trust, 
M’isdom  the  weary  schoolmen  never  knew.’’ 

So,  entering  with  a  changed  and  cheerful  step 
The  city  gates,  he  saw,  far  down  the  street, 

A  mighty  shadow  break  the  light  of  noon, 

^Vhich  tracing  backward  till  its  airy  lines 
Hardened  to  stony  plinths,  he  raised  his  eyes 
O’er  broad  facade  and  lofty  pediment. 

O’er  architrave  and  frieze  and  sainted  niche. 

Up  the  stone  lace-work  chiselled  by  the  wise 
Erwin  of  Steinbach,  dizzily  up  to  where 
In  the  noon-brightness  the  great  Minster’s  tower. 
Jewelled  with  sunbeams  on  its  mural  crown. 

Rose  like  a  visible  prayer.  "  Behold  !  ”  he  said, 

“  The  stranger’s  faith  made  plain  before  mine  eyes 
As  yonder  tower  outstretches  to  the  earth 
'fhe  dark  triangle  of  its  shade  alone 
When  the  clear  day  is  shining  on  its  top. 

So,  darkness  in  the  pathway  of  Man’s  life 
Is  but  the  shadow  of  God’s  providence. 

By  the  great  Sun  of  Wisdom  cast  thereon  ; 

And  what  is  dark  below  is  light  in  Heaven.” 


LINES 


SUGGESTED  BY  READING  A  STATE  PAPER,  WHEREIN  THE  HIGHER  LAW  IS 
INVOKED  TO  SUSTAIN  THE  LOWER  ONE. 


A  PIOUS  magistrate  !  sound  his  praise  throughout 
The  wondering  churches.  Who  shall  henceforth 
doubt 

That  the  long-wished  millennium  draweth  nigh  ? 
Sin  in  high  places  has  become  devout, 

Tithes  mint,  goes  painful-faced,  and  prays  its  lie 
Straight  up  to  Heaven,  and  calls  it  piety ! 

The  pirate,  watching  from  his  bloody  deck 
The  weltering  galleon,  heavy  with  the  gold 
Of  Acapulco,  holding  death  in  check 

While  prayers  are  said,  brows  crossed,  and  beads 
are  told  — 

The  robber,  kneeling  where  the  wayside  cross 
On  dark  Abruzzo  tells  of  life’s  dread  loss 
From  his  own  carbine,  glancing  still  abroad 
For  some  new  victim,  offering  thanks  to  God  I  — 

5 


F 


66 


LINES. 


Rome,  listening'  at  her  altars  to  the  cry 
Of  midnight  Murder,  while  her  hounds  of  hell 
Scour  France,  from  baptized  cannon  and  holy  bell 
And  thousand-throated  priesthood,  loud  and  high, 
Pealing  Te  Deums  to  the  shuddering  sky, 

"  Thanks  to  the  Lord  who  giveth  victory  !  ’* 

What  prove  these,  but  that  crime  was  ne’er  so  black 
As  ghostly  cheer  and  pious  thanks  to  lack  ? 

Satan  is  modest.  At  Heaven’s  door  he  lays 
llis  evil  offspring,  and,  in  scriptural  phrase 
And  saintly  posture,  gives  to  God  the  praise 
And  honor  of  the  monstrous  progeny. 

W'liat  marvel,  then,  in  our  own  time  to  see 
llis  old  devices  smoothly  acted  o’er  — 

Official  piety,  locking  fast  the  door 
Of  Hope  against  three  million  souls  of  men  — 
Rrotliers,  God’s  children,  Christ’s  redeemed  —  and 
then, 

With  uprolled  eyeballs  and  on  bended  knee. 

Whining  a  prayer  for  help  to  hide  the  key  ! 


THE  VOICES. 


“  Why  urge  the  long,  unequal  fight, 

Since  Truth  has  fallen  in  the  street. 

Or  lift  anew  the  trampled  light. 

Quenched  by  the  heedless  million’s  feet  ? 

"  Give  o’er  the  thankless  task  ;  forsake 
The  fools  who  know  not  ill  from  good  ; 

Eat,  drink,  enjoy  thy  own,  and  take 
Thine  ease  among  the  multitude. 

“  Live  out  thyself ;  with  others  share 
Thy  proper  life  no  more  ;  assume 

The  unconcern  of  sun  and  air. 

For  life  or  death,  or  blight  or  bloom. 

“  The  mountain  pine  looks  calmly  on 
The  fires  that  scourge  the  plains  below. 

Nor  heeds  the  eagle  in  the  sun 

The  small  birds  piping  in  the  snow  I 


68 


THE  VOICES. 


“  The  world  is  God’s,  not  thine  ;  let  Him 
Work  out  a  change,  if  change  must  be  ; 

The  hand  that  planted  best  can  trim 
And  nurse  the  old  unfruitful  tree.” 

So  spake  the  Tempter,  when  the  light 
Of  sun  and  stars  had  left  the  sky. 

I  listened,  through  the  cloud  and  night. 

And  heard,  methought,  a  voice  reply  : 

“  Thy  task  may  well  seem  over-hard. 

Who  scatterest  in  a  thankless  soil 

'I'hy  life  as  seed,  with  no  reward 
Save  that  which  Duty  gives  to  Toil. 

“Not  wholly  is  thy  heart  resigned 
To  Heaven’s  benign  and  just  decree. 

Which,  linking  thee  with  all  thy  kind, 
Transmits  their  joys  and  griefs  to  thee. 

“  Break  off  that  sacred  chain,  and  turn 
Back  on  thyself  thy  love  and  care  ; 

Be  thou  thine  own  mean  idol,  burn 

Faith,  Hope,  and  Trust,  thy  children,  there. 


THE  VOICES. 


69 


"  Released  fi-om  that  fraternal  law 

Which  shares  the  common  bale  and  bhss, 

No  sadder  lot  could  Folly  draw, 

Or  Sin  provoke  from  Fate,  than  this. 

“  The  meal  unshared  is  food  unblest ; 

Thou  hoard’st  in  vain  what  love  should  spend  ; 

Self-ease  is  pain  ;  thy  only  rest 
Is  labor  for  a  worthy  end, 

"  A  toil  that  gains  with  what  it  yields. 

And  scatters  to  its  own  increase. 

And  hears,  while  sowing  outward  fields, 

The  harvest-song  of  inward  peace. 

“  Free-lipped  the  liberal  streamlets  run. 

Free  shines  for  all  the  healthful  ray  ; 

The  still  pool  stagnates  in  the  sun. 

The  lurid  earth-fire  haunts  decay ! 

"  What  is  it  that  the  crowd  requite 
Thy  love  with  hate,  thy  truth  with  Lies  ? 

And  but  to  faith,  and  not  to  sight. 

The  walls  of  Freedom’s  temple  rise  ? 


THE  VOICES. 


to 

“  Yet  do  thy  work  ;  it  shall  succeed 
Ill  thine  or  in  another’s  day  ; 

And,  if  denied  the  victor’s  meed, 

Thou  shalt  not  lack  the  toiler’s  pay. 

“  Faith  shares  the  future’s  promise  ;  Love’s 
Self-offering  is  a  triumph  won  ; 

And  each  good  thought  or  action  moves 
The  dark  world  nearer  to  the  sun. 

“  Then  faint  not,  falter  not,  nor  plead 
Thy  weakness  ;  truth  itself  is  strong  ; 

The  lion’s  strength,  the  eagle’s  speed. 

Are  not  alone  vouchsafed  to  wrong. 

“  Thy  nature,  which,  through  fire  and  flood. 
To  place  or  gain  finds  out  its  way. 

Hath  power  to  seek  the  highest  good. 

And  duty’s  holiest  call  obey  ! 

Strivest  thou  in  darkness  ?  —  Foes  without 
In  league  with  traitor  thoughts  within  ; 
Thy  night-watch  kept  with  trembling  Doubt 
And  pale  Remorse  the  ghost  of  Sin  ?  — 


THE  VOICES, 


n 


“Hast  thou  not,  on  some  week  of  storm, 
Seen  the  sweet  Sabbath  breaking  fair. 
And  cloud  and  shadow,  sunlit,  form 
The  curtains  of  its  tent  of  prayer  ? 

“  So,  haply,  when  thy  task  shall  end, 

The  wrong'  shall  lose  itself  in  right. 
And  all  thy  week-day  darkness  blend 
With  the  long  Sabbath  of  the  light !  ” 


THE  HERO. 


"01  FOB  a  knight  like  Bayard, 
Without  reproach  or  fear  ; 

My  light  glove  on  his  casque  of  steel. 
My  love-knot  on  his  spear  ! 

"  0  !  for  the  white  plume  floating 
Sad  Zutphen’s  field  above  — 

The  lion  heart  in  battle, 

The  woman’s  heart  in  love  ! 

"  0  !  that  man  once  more  were  manly, 
Woman’s  pride,  and  not  her  scorn  ; 

That  once  more  the  pale  young  mother 
Dared  to  boast  ‘  a  man  is  bom  ’ ! 

"  But,  now  life’s  slumberous  current 
No  sun-bowed  cascade  wakes; 

No  tall,  heroic  manhood 


The  level  dulness  breaks. 


THE  HERO. 


"  0  !  for  a  knight  like  Bayard, 
Without  reproach  or  fear  ! 

My  light  glove  on  his  casque  of  steel, 
My  love-knot  on  his  spear  !  ’’ 

Then  I  said,  my  own  heart  throbbing 
To  the  time  her  proud  pulse  beat, 

“  Life  hath  its  regal  natures  yet  — 
True,  tender,  brave,  and  sweet  1 

“  Smile  not,  fair  unbeliever  1 
One  man,  at  least,  I  know. 

Who  might  wear  the  crest  of  Bayard, 
Or  Sidney’s  plume  of  snow. 

“  Once,  when  over  purple  mountains 
Died  away  the  Grecian  sun. 

And  the  far  Cyllenian  ranges 

Paled  and  darkened,  one  by  one  — 

“  Fell  the  Turk,  a  bolt  of  thunder. 
Cleaving  all  the  quiet  sky. 

And  against  his  sharp  steel  lightnings 
Stood  the  Suliote  but  to  die. 

G 


n 


THE  HERO. 


“Woe  for  the  weak  and  halting ! 

The  crescent  blazed  behind 
A  curving  line  of  sabres, 

Like  fire  before  the  wind  I 

“  Last  to  fly  and  first  to  rally, 

Rode  he  of  whom  I  speak. 

When,  groaning  in  his  bridle-path 
Sank  down  a  wounded  Greek, 

“  With  the  rich  Albanian  costume 
Wet  with  many  a  ghastly  stain 
Gazing  on  earth  and  sky  as  one 
Who  might  not  gaze  again  I 

“  He  looked  forward  to  the  mountains, 
Back  on  foes  that  never  spare. 

Then  flung  him  from  his  saddle. 

And  placed  the  stranger  there. 

“  ‘  Allah  I  hu  I  ’  Through  flashing  sabres, 
Through  a  stormy  hail  of  lead. 

The  good  Thessalian  charger 
Up  the  slopes  of  olives  sped. 


THE  HERO. 


To 


“  Hot  spurred  the  turbaned  riders  ; 

He  almost  felt  their  breath, 

Where  a  mountain  stream  rolled  darklj"  down 
Between  the  hills  and  death. 

“  One  brave  and  manful  struggle  — 

He  gained  the  solid  land, 

And  the  cover  of  the  mountains. 

And  the  carbines  of  his  band  !  ” 

“  It  was  very  great  and  noble," 

Said  the  moist-eyed  listener  then, 

“  But  one  brave  deed  makes  no  hero  ; 

Tell  me  what  he  since  hath  been  !  " 

\ 

“  Still  a  brave  and  generous  manhood. 

Still  an  honor  without  stain. 

In  the  prison  of  the  Kaiser, 

By  the  barricades  of  Seine. 

“  But  dream  not  helm  and  harness 
The  sign  of  valor  true  ; 

Peace  hath  higher  tests  of  manhood 
Than  battle  ever  knew. 


•(6 


THE  HERO. 


“  Wouldst  know  him  now  ?  Behold  him, 
The  Cadmus  of  the  blind, 

Giving  the  dumb  lip  language. 

The  idiot  clay  a  mind. 

‘‘  Walking  his  round  of  duty 
Serenely  day  by  day, 

AVith  the  strong  man’s  hand  of  labor  • 
And  childhood’s  heart  of  play. 

“  True  as  the  knights  of  story, 

Sir  Lancelot  and  his  peers, 

Brave  in  his  calm  endurance 
As  they  in  tilt  of  spears. 

“  As  waves  in  stillest  waters. 

As  stars  in  noonday  skies. 

All  that  wakes  to  noble  action 
In  his  noon  of  calmness  lies. 

“  Wherever  outraged  Nature 
Asks  word  or  action  brave, 

Wherever  struggles  labor. 

Wherever  groans  a  slave  — 


THE  HERO. 


77 


"  Wherever  rise  the  peoples, 
Wherever  sinks  a  throne, 

The  throbbing  heart  of  Freedom  finds 
An  answer  in  his  own. 

“  Knight  of  a  better  era. 

Without  reproach  or  fear  1 
Said  I  not  well  that  Bayards 
And  Sidneys  still  are  here  ? 


MY  DREAM. 


In  my  dream,  methought  I  trod, 
Yesternight,  a  mountain  road  ; 

NaiTOw  as  A1  Sirat’s  span, 

High  as  eagle’s  flight,  it  ran. 

Overhead,  a  roof  of  cloud 
With  its  weight  of  thunder  bowed  ; 
Underneath,  to  left  and  right. 
Blankness  and  abysmal  night. 

Here  and  there  a  wild-flower  ])luslied, 
Now  and  then  a  bird-song  gushed  ; 
Now  and  then,  through  rifts  of  shade, 
Stars  shone  out,  and  sunbeams  plaj^ed 

But  the  goodly  company. 

Walking  in  that  path  with  me. 

One  by  one  the  brink  o’erslid. 

One  by  one  the  darkness  hid. 


MY  DREAM, 


79 


Some  with  wailing  and  lament, 
Some  with  cheerful  courage,  went ; 
But,  of  all  who  smiled  or  mourned, 
Never  one  to  us  returned. 

Anxiously,  with  eye  and  ear. 
Questioning  that  shadow  drear. 
Never  hand  in  token  stirred. 

Never  answei’ing  voice  I  heard  ! 

Steeper,  darker  !  — lo  !  I  felt 
From  my  feet  the  pathway  melt. 
Swallowed  by  the  black  despair. 
And  the  hungry  jaws  of  air. 

Past  the  stony-throated  caves. 
Strangled  by  the  wash  of  waves, 
Past  the  splintered  crags,  I  sank 
On  a  green  and  flowery  bank  — 

Soft  as  fall  of  thistle-down. 

Lightly  as  a  cloud  is  blown. 
Soothingly  as  childhood  pressed 
To  the  bosom  of  its  rest. 


80 


MY  DREAM. 


Of  the  sharp-horned  rocks  instead, 
Green  the  grassy  meadows  spread, 
Bright  with  waters  singing  by 
Trees  that  propped  a  golden  sky. 

♦ 

Painless,  trustful,  sorrow-free. 

Old  lost  faces  welcomed  me. 

With  whose  sweetness  of  content 
Still  expectant  hope  was  blent. 

Waking  while  the  dawning  gray 
Slowly  brightened  into  day. 

Pondering  that  vision  fled. 

Thus  unto  myself  I  said  : 

"  Steep,  and  hung  with  clouds  of  strife. 
Is  our  narrow  path  of  life  ; 

And  our  death  the  dreaded  fall 
Through  the  dark,  awaiting  all. 

"  So  with  painful  steps  we  climb 
Up  the  dizzy  ways  of  time. 

Ever  in  the  shadow  shed 
By  the  forecast  of  our  dread. 


MY  DREAM. 


81 


“Dread  of  mystery  solved  alone, 

Of  the  untried  and  unknown  ; 

Yet  the  end  thereof  may  seem 
Like  the  falling  of  my  dream, 

“  And  this  heart-consuming  care, 

All  our  fears  of  here  or  there. 
Change  and  absence,  loss  and  death, 
Prove  but  simple  lack  of  faith.” 

Thou,  0  Most  Compassionate  ! 

Who  didst  stoop  to  our  estate. 
Drinking  of  the  cup  we  drain. 
Treading  in  our  path  of  pain  — 

Through  the  doubt  and  mystery. 
Grant  to  us  Thy  steps  to  see. 

And  the  grace  to  draw  from  thence 
Larger  hope  and  confidence. 

Show  Thy  vacant  tomb,  and  let. 

As  of  old,  the  angels  sit. 
Whispering,  by  its  open  door  : 

“  Fear  not !  lie  hath  gone  before  !  ” 
6 


THE  BAREFOOT  BOY. 


Blessings  on  thee,  little  man, 
Barefoot  boy,  with  cheek  of  tan  ! 
With  thy  turned-up  pantaloons, 

And  thy  merry  whistled  tunes  ; 

With  thy  red  lip,  redder  still 
Kissed  by  strawberries  on  the  hill ; 
With  the  sunshine  on  thy  face. 
Through  thy  torn  brim’s  jaunty  grace 
From  my  heart  I  give  thee  joy  — 

I  was  once  a  barefoot  boy  ! 

Prince  thou  art — the  grown-up  man 
Only  is  republican. 

Let  the  million-dollared  ride  I 
Barefoot,  trudging  at  his  side. 

Thou  hast  more  than  he  can  buy. 

In  the  reach  of  ear  and  eye  — 
Outward  sunshine,  inward  joy  : 
Blessings  on  thee,  barefoot  boy  ! 


THE  BAEEFOOT  BOY. 


83 


0,  for  boyhood’s  painless  play, 

Sleep  that  wakes  in  laughing  day, 
Health  that  mocks  the  doctor’s  rules. 
Knowledge  never  learned  of  schools. 

Of  the  wild  bee’s  morning  chase, 

Of  the  wild-flower’s  time  and  place, 
Flight  of  fowl,  and  habitude 
Of  the  tenants  of  the  wood  ; 

ITow  the  tortoise  bears  his  sliell, 

How  the  woodchuck  digs  his  cell, 

And  the  ground-mole  sinks  his  well ; 
How  the  robin  feeds  her  young, 

How  the  oriole’s  nest  is  hung  ; 

Where  the  whitest  lilies  blow, 

^  Where  the  freshest  berries  grow, 

Where  the  ground-nut  trails  its  vine, 
Where  the  wood-grape’s  clusters  shine  ; 
Of  the  black  wasp’s  cunning  way. 
Mason  of  his  walls  of  clay, 

And  the  architectiiral  plans 
Of  gray,  hornet  artisans  !  — 

For,  eschewing  books  and  tasks, 

Nature  answers  all  he  asks ; 


84 


THE  BAREFOOT  BOY. 


Hand  in  hand  with  her  he  walks, 

Face  to  face  with  her  he  talks, 

Part  and  parcel  of  her  joy,  — 

Blessings  on  the  barefoot  boy  I 

0,  for  boyhood’s  time  of  June, 
Crowding  years  in  one  brief  moon, 
When  all  things  I  heard  or  saw 
Me,  their  master,  waited  for. 

I  was  rich  in  flowers  and  trees, 
Humming-birds  and  honey-bees  ; 

For  my  sport  the  squirrel  played, 

Plied  the  snouted  mole  his  spade  ; 

F or  my  taste  the  blackberry  cone 
Purpled  over  hedge  and  stone  ; 

Laughed  the  brook  for  my  delight 
Through  the  day  and  through  the  night, 
Whispering  at  the  garden  wall, 

Talked  with  me  from  fall  to  fall ; 

Mine  the  sand-rimmed  pickerel  pond, 
Mine  the  walnut  slopes  beyond. 

Mine,  on  bending  orchard  trees. 

Apples  of  Hesperides  1 


THE  BAREFOOT  BOY. 


85 


Still,  as  my  horizon  grew, 

Larger  grew  my  riches  too  ; 

All  the  world  I  saw  or  knew 
Seemed  a  complex  Chinese  toy. 
Fashioned  for  a  barefoot  boy  ! 

0,  for  festal  dainties  spread. 

Like  my  bowl  of  milk  and  bread,  — 
Pewter  spoon  and  bowl  of  wood. 

On  the  door-stone,  gray  and  rude  ! 
O’er  me,  like  a  regal  tent. 
Cloudy-ribbed,  the  sunset  bent. 
Purple-curtained,  fringed  with  gold. 
Looped  in  many  a  wind-swung  fold  ; 
VVhile  for  music  came  the  play 
Of  the  pied  frogs’  orchestra  ; 

And,  to  light  the  noisy  choir. 

Lit  the  fly  his  lamp  of  fire. 

I  was  monarch  :  pomp  and  joy 
Waited  on  the  barefoot  boy  ! 

Cheerily,  then,  my  little  man. 

Live  and  laugh,  as  boyhood  can  ! 


I 


THE  BAREFOOT  BOY. 


8t) 


Though  the  flinty  slopes  be  hard, 
Stubble-speared  the  new-mown  sward, 
Every  morn  shall  lead  thee  through 
Fresh  baptisms  of  the  dew  ; 

Every  evening  from  thy  feet 
Shall  the  cool  wind  kiss  the  heat : 

All  too  soon  these  feet  must  hide 
In  the  prison  cells  of  pride. 

Lose  the  freedom  of  the  sod. 

Like  a  colt’s  for  work  be  shod, 
j\Iade  to  tread  the  mills  of  toil. 

Up  and  down  in  ceaseless  moil : 
Happy  if  their  track  be  found 
Never  on  forbidden  ground  ; 

Happy  if  they  sink  not  in 
Quick  and  treacherous  sands  of  sin. 
Ah  !  that  thou  couldst  know  thy  joy. 
Ere  it  passes,  barefoot  boy  I 


FLOWERS  IN  WINTER. 


PAINTED  UPON  A  PORTE  LIVRE. 

How  strange  to  greet,  this  frosty  morn, 

In  graceful  counterfeit  of  flowers, 

These  children  of  the  meadows,  born 
Of  sunshine  and  of  showers  ! 

How  well  the  conscious  wood  retains 
The  pictures  of  its  flower-sown  home  — - 
The  lights  and  shades,  the  purple  stains, 
And  golden  hues  of  bloom  ! 

It  was  a  happy  thought  to  bring 
To  the  dark  season’s  frost  and  rime 
This  painted  memory  of  spring, 

This  dream  of  summer  time. 

Our  hearts  are  lighter  for  its  sake. 

Our  fancy’s  age  renews  its  youth, 

And  dim-remembered  fictions  take 
The  guise  of  present  truth. 


88 


FLOWERS  IN  WINTER. 


A  wizard  of  the  Merrimac  — 

So  old  ancestral  legends  say  — 

Could  call  green  leaf  and  blossom  back 
To  frosted  stem  and  spray. 

The  dry  logs  of  the  cottage  wall, 

Beneath  his  touch,  put  out  their  leaves  ; 

The  clay-bound  swallow,  at  his  call. 

Played  round  the  icy  eaves. 

Tlie  settler  saw  his  oaken  flail 

Take  bud,  and  bloom  before  his  eyes  ; 

From  frozen  pools  he  saw  the  pale, 

Sweet  summer  lilies  rise. 

To  their  old  homes,  by  man  profaned. 

Came  the  sad  dryads,  exiled  long, 

And  through  their  leafy  tongues  complained 
Of  household  use  and  wrong. 

The  beechen  platter  sprouted  wild. 

The  pipkin  wore  its  old-time  green  ; 

The  cradle  o’er  the  sleeping  child 
Became  a  leafy  screen. 


FLOWERS  IN  WINTER. 


89 


Ilaply  our  gentle  friend  hath  met, 

While  wandering-  in  her  sylvan  quest, 

Ilaunting  his  native  wmodlands  yet, 

That  Druid  of  the  W^est ;  — 

And,  while  the  dew  on  leaf  and  flower 
Glistened  in  moonlight  clear  and  still. 

Learned  the  dusk  wizard’s  spell  of  power. 
And  caught  his  trick  of  skill. 

But  welcome,  he  it  new  or  old, 

The  gift  which  makes  the  day  more  bright, 

And  paints  upon  the  ground  of  cold 
And  darkness,  warmth  and  light ! 

Without  is  neither  gold  nor  green ; 

Within,  for  birds,  the  hirch-logs  sing  ; 

Yet,  summerdike,  we  sit  between 
The  autumn  and  the  spring. 

The  one,  with  bridal  blush  of  rose. 

And  sweetest  breath  of  woodland  balm. 

And  one  whose  matron  lips  unclose 
In  smiles  of  saintly  calm. 

H 


90 


FLOWERS  IN  WINTER. 


Fill  soft  and  deep,  0  winter  snow ! 

The  sweet  azalia’s  oaken  dells, 

And  hide  the  bank  where  roses  blow. 

And  swing  the  azure  bells  ! 

O’erlay  the  amber  violet’s  leaves, 

The  purple  aster’s  brook-side  home. 
Guard  all  the  flowers  her  pencil  gives 
A  life  beyond  their  bloom. 

And  she,  when  spring  comes  round  again. 
By  greening  slope  and  singing  flood 
Shall  wander,  seeking,  not  in  vain. 

Her  darlings  of  the  wood. 


THE  RENDITION. 


I  HEARD  the  train’s  shrill  whistle  call, 

I  saw  an  earnest  look  beseech, 

And  rather  by  that  look  than  speech 
My  neighbor  told  me  all. 

And,  as  I  thought  of  Liberty 

Marched  hand-cuffed  down  that  sworded  street, 
The  solid  earth  beneath  my  feet 
Reeled  fluid  as  the  sea. 

I  felt  a  sense  of  bitter  loss  — 

Shame,  tearless  grief,  and  stifling  wrath, 

And  loathing  fear,  as  if  my  path 
A  serpent  stretched  across. 

All  love  of  home,  all  pride  of  place. 

All  generous  confidence  and  trust, 

Sank  smothering  in  that  deep  disgust 
And  anguish  of  disgrace. 


92 


THE  RENDITION. 


Down  on  my  native  hills  of  June, 

And  home’s  green  quiet,  hiding  all. 

Fell  sudden  darkness  like  the  fall 

Of  midnight  upon  noon  I 

And  Law,  an  unloosed  maniac,  strong. 

Blood-drunken,  through  the  blackness  trod, 
Iloarse-shouting  in  the  ear  of  God 

The  blasphemy  of  wrong. 

"  0,  Mother,  from  thy  memories  proud. 

Thy  old  renown,  dear  Commonwealth, 

Lend  this  dead  air  a  breeze  of  health. 

And  smite  with  stars  this  cloud. 

“  Mother  of  Freedom,  wise  and  brave, 

Kise  awful  in  thy  strength,”  I  said  ; 

Ah,  me  1  I  spake  but  to  the  dead  ; 

I  stood  upon  her  grave  ! 

Si.ith  Month,  1854. 


LINES, 


os  THE  PASSAGE  OP  THE  BILL  TO  PROTECT  THE  RIGHTS  AKD  LIBERTIES  OF  THE 
PEOPLE  OF  THE  STATE  AGAINST  THE  FUGITTPE  SLAVE  ACT. 

I  SAID  I  stood  upon  thy  grave, 

My  Mother  State,  when  last  the  moon 
Of  blossoms  clomb  the  skies  of  June. 

And,  scattering  ashes  on  my  head, 

I  wore,  undreaming  of  relief. 

The  sackcloth  of  thy  shame  and  grief. 

Again  that  moon  of  blossoms  shines 
On  leaf  and  flower  and  folded  wing. 

And  thou  hast  risen  with  the  spring ! 

Once  more  thy  strong  maternal  arms 
Are  round  about  thy  children  flung  — 

A  lioness  that  guards  her  young ! 


94 


LINES. 


No  threat  is  on  thy  closed  lips, 

But  in  thine  eye  a  power  to  smite 
The  mad  wolf  backward  from  its  light. 

Southward  the  baffled  robber’s  track 
Henceforth  runs  only  ;  hereaway, 

The  fell  lycanthrope  finds  no  prey. 

Henceforth,  within  thy  sacred  gates. 

His  first  low  howl  shall  downward  draw 
The  thunder  of  thy  righteous  law. 

Not  mindless  of  thy  trade  and  gain. 

But,  acting  on  the  wiser  plan. 

Thou  ’rt  grown  conservative  of  man. 


So  shalt  thou  clothe  with  life  the  hope, 
Dream-painted  on  the  sightless  eyes 
Of  him  who  sang  of  Paradise  — 

The  vision  of  a  Christian  man, 

In  virtue  as  in  stature  great. 
Embodied  in  a  Christian  State. 


LINES. 


95 


And  thou,  amidst  thy  sisterhood 
Forbearing  long,  yet  standing  fast, 

Shalt  win  their  grateful  thanks  at  last ; 

When  North  and  South  shall  strive  no  more. 
And  all  their  feuds  and  fears  be  lost 
In  Freedom’s  holy  Pentecost. 

Six/h  Month,  1855. 


THE  FEUIT-GIFT. 


Last  night,  just  as  the  tints  of  autumn’s  sky 
Of  sunset  faded  from  our  hills  and  streams, 

I  sat,  vague  listening,  lapped  in  twilight  dreams, 
To  the  leaf’s  rustle,  and  the  cricket’s  cry. 

Then,  like  that  basket,  flush  with  summer  fruit, 
Dropped  by  the  angels  at  the  Prophet’s  foot, 
Came,  unannounced,  a  gift  of  clustered  sweetness. 
Full-orbed,  and  glowing  with  the  prisoned  beams 
Of  summery  suns,  and,  rounded  to  completeness 
By  kisses  of  the  south  wind  and  the  dew. 

Thrilled  with  a  glad  surprise,  methought  I  knew 
The  pleasure  of  the  homeward-turning  Jew, 

Wdien  Eschol’s  clusters  on  his  shoulders  lay. 
Dropping  their  sweetness  on  his  desert  way. 

I  said,  “  This  fruit  beseems  no  world  of  sin. 

Its  parent  vine,  rooted  in  Paradise, 

O’ercrept  the  wall,  and  never  paid  the  price 
Of  the  great  mischief —  an  ambrosial  tree, 


THE  F  R  U I  T  -  G  I F  T  . 


97 


Eden’s  exotic,  somehow  smugg’led  in, 

To  keep  the  thorns  and  thistles  company.” 
Perchance  our  frail,  sad  mother  plucked  in  haste 
A  single  vine-slip  as  she  passed  the  gate, 

"Where  the  dread  sword,  alternate,  paled  and  burned, 
And  the  stern  angel,  pitying  her  fate, 

Forgave  the  lovely  trespasser,  and  turned 
Aside  his  face  of  fire  ;  and  thus  the  waste 
And  fallen  world  hath  yet  its  annual  taste 
Of  primal  good,  to  prove  of  sin  the  cost. 

And  show  by  one  gleaned  ear  the  mighty  harvest  lost. 


A  MEMORY 


Here,  while  the  loom  of  Winter  weaves 
The  shroud  of  flowers  and  fountains,  / 
I  think  of  thee  and  Summer  eves 
Among  the  Northern  mountains. 


When  thunder  tolled  the  twilight’s  close, 
And  winds  the  lake  were  rude  on. 

And  thou  wert  singing.  Go’  the  Yoives, 
The  bonny  yowes  of  Cluden  ! 

When,  close  and  closer,  hushing  breath. 
Our  circle  narrowed  round  thee. 

And  smiles  and  tears  made  up  the  wreath 
Wherewith  our  silence  crowned  thee  ; 

And,  strangers  all,  we  felt  the  ties 
Of  sisters  and  of  brothers  ; 

Ah  !  whose  of  all  those  kindly  eyes 
Now  smile  upon  another’s  ? 


A  MEMORY. 


99 


The  sport  of  Time,  who  still  apart 
The  waifs  of  life  is  flinging  ; 

0  I  never  more  shall  heart  to  heart 
Draw  nearer  for  that  singing  ! 

Yet  when  the  panes  are  frosty-starred, 
And  twilight’s  fire  is  gleaming, 

I  hear  the  songs  of  Scotland’s  bard 
Sound  softly  through  my  dreaming  ! 

A  song  that  lends  to  winter  snows 
The  glow  of  summer  weather  — 

Again  I  hear  thee  ca’  the  yowes 
To  Cluden’s  hills  of  heather  ! 


TO  C.  S. 


If  I  have  seemed  more  prompt  to  censure  wrong 
Than  praise  the  right ;  if  seldom  to  thine  ear 
My  voice  hath  mingled  with  the  exultant  cheer, 
Borne  upon  all  our  Northern  winds  along  ; 

If  I  have  failed  to  join  the  fickle  throng 
In  wide-eyed  wonder,  that  thou  standest  strong 
Ill  victory,  surprised  in  thee  to  find 
Brougham’s  scathing  power  with  Canning’s  grace 
combined  ; 

That  he,  for  whom  the  nine-fold  Muses  sang, 

From  their  twined  arms  a  giant  athlete  sprang. 
Barbing  the  arrows  of  his  native  tongue 
With  the  spent  shafts  Latona’s  archer  fiung. 

To  smite  the  Python  of  our  land  and  time, 

I’eU  as  the  monster  born  of  Orissa’s  slime. 

Like  the  blind  bard  who  in  Castalian  springs 
Tempered  the  steel  that  clove  the  crest  of  kings. 
And  on  the  shrine  of  England’s  freedom  laid 
The  gifts  of  Cumm  and  of  Delphi’s  shade  — 


TO  C  .  S . 


101 


Small  need  hast  thou  of  words  of  praise  from  me. 
Thou  knowest  my  heart,  dear  friend,  and  well  canst 
guess 

That,  even  though  silent,  I  have  not  the  less 
Rejoiced  to  see  thy  actual  life  agree 
AVith  the  large  future  which  I  shaped  for  thee, 
AVhen,  years  ago,  beside  the  summer  sea, 

AATiite  in  the  moon,  we  saw  the  long  waves  fall 
Baffled  and  broken  from  the  rocky  wall. 

That,  to  the  menace  of  the  brawling  flood. 

Opposed  alone  its  massive  quietude. 

Calm  as  a  fate  ;  with  not  a  leaf  nor  vine 
Nor  birch-spray  trembling  in  the  still  moonshine, 
Crowning  it  like  God’s  peace.  I  sometimes  think 
That  night-scene  by  the  sea  prophetical  — 

(For  nature  speaks  in  symbols  and  in  signs. 

And  through  her  pictures  human  fate  divines)  — 
That  rock,  wherefrom  we  saw  the  billows  sink 
In  murmuring  rout,  uprising  clear  and  tall 
In  the  white  light  of  heaven,  the  type  of  one 
Who,  momently  by  Error’s  host  assailed, 

Stands  strong  as  Truth,  in  greaves  of  granite  mailed  ; 

And,  tranquil-fronted,  listening  over  all 
The  tumult,  hears  the  angels  say,  AVell  done ! 


THE  KANSAS  EMIG HANTS. 


We  cross  the  prairie  as  of  old 
The  pilgrims  crossed  the  sea. 

To  make  the  West,  as  they  the  East, 
The  homestead  of  the  free  I 

W e  go  to  rear  a  wall  of  men 
On  Freedom’s  southern  line 

And  plant  beside  the  cotton-tree 
The  rugged  Northern  pine  ! 

We  ’re  flowing  from  our  native  hills 
As  our  free  rivers  flow  ; 

The  blessing  of  our  Mother-land 
Is  on  us  as  we  go. 

We  go  to  plant  her  common  schools 
On  distant  prairie  swells. 

And  give  the  Sabbaths  of  the  wild 
The  music  of  her  bells. 


THE  KANSAS  EMIGRANTS. 


lo:^ 


Upbearing,  like  the  Ark  of  old, 

The  Bible  in  our  van. 

We  go  to  test  the  truth  of  God 
Against  the  fraud  of  man. 

No  pause,  nor  rest,  save  where  the  streams 
That  feed  the  Kansas  run. 

Save  where  our  Pilgrim  gonfalon 
Shall  flout  the  setting  sun  I 

We  ’ll  tread  the  prairie  as  of  old 
Our  fathers  sailed  the  sea. 

And  make  the  West,  as  they  the  East, 

The  homestead  of  the  free  ! 


SONG  OF  SLAVES  IN  THE  DESERT.* 


Where  are  we  going  ?  where  are  we  going, 
Where  are  we  going,  Rubee  ? 

Lord  of  peoples,  lord  of  lands. 

Look  across  these  shining  sands. 

Through  the  furnace  of  the  noon. 

Through  the  white  light  of  the  moon. 

Strong  the  Ghiblee  wind  is  blowing. 

Strange  and  large  the  world  is  growing  ! 
Speak  and  tell  us  where  we  are  going. 

Where  are  we  going,  Rubee 't 

*  “  Srhah,  Oasis  of  Fezzan,  \Qth  March,  1846.  —  This  evening 
the  female  slaves  were  unusually  excited  in  singing,  and  I  had  the 
curiosity  to  ask  my  negro  servant,  Said,  what  they  were  singing 
about.  As  many  of  them  were  natives  of  his  own  country,  he  had  no 
(lifBculty  in  translating  the  Mandara  or  Bornou  language.  I  had 
often  asked  the  Moors  to  translate  their  songs  for  me,  but  got  no 
satisfactory  account  from  them.  Said  at  first  said,  ‘  0,  they  sing  of 
Rubee  ’  (God)  ‘  What  do  you  mean  ?  ’  I  replied,  impatiently.  ‘  0, 


SONG  OF  SLAVES  IN  THE  DESERT.  105 


Bornou  land  was  rich  and  good, 

Wells  of  water,  fields  of  food, 

Dourra  fields,  and  bloom  of  bean. 

And  the  palm-tree  cool  and  green  : 

Bornou  land  we  see  no  longer. 

Here  we  thirst  and  here  we  hunger. 

Here  the  Moor-man  smites  in  anger  : 

Where  are  we  going,  Rubee  ? 

don’t  you  know,’  he  continued,  ‘  they  asked  God  to  give  them  their 
Atka?'  (certificate  of  freedom).  I  inquired,  'Is  that  all?’  Said  : 
‘  Xo  ;  they  say,  "  Where  are  we  going  ?  The  world  is  large.  0  God  ! 
ivhr.re  are  we  going  ^  O  God  /  ”  ’  I  inquired,  '  What  else  ?  ’  Said  : 
‘They  remember  their  country,  Bornou,  and  say,  “Bornou  teas  a 
pleasant  country,  full  of  all  good  things  ;  but  this  is  a  bad  country,  and 
we  are  miserable!^'’  ‘Do  they  say  anything  else?’  Said:  ‘No; 
they  repeat  these  words  over  and  over  again,  and  add,'  “  0  God  !  give 
us  our  Atka,  and  let  us  return  again  to  our  dear  home.”  ’ 

“  I  am  not  surprised  I  got  little  satisfaction  when  I  asked  the 
Moors  about  the  songs  of  their  slaves.  Who  will  say  that  the  above 
words  are  not  a  very  appropriate  song  ?  What  could  have  been  more 
congenially  adapted  to  their  then  woful  condition  ?  It  is  not  to  be 
wondered  at  that  these  poor  bondwomen  cheer  up  their  hearts,  in 
their  long,  lonely,  and  painful  wanderings  over  the  desert,  with  words 
and  sentiments  like  these  ;  but  I  have  often  observed  that  their 
fatigue  and  sufferings  were  too  great  for  them  to  strike  up  this  mel¬ 
ancholy  dirge,  and  many  days  their  plaintive  strains  never  broke  over 
the  silence  of  the  desert.”  —  Richardson’s  Journal. 


106  SONG  OP  SLAVES  IN  THE  DESERT. 


When  we  went  from  Bornou  land, 

We  were  like  the  leaves  and  sand,  — 
We  were  many,  we  are  few ; 

Life  has  one,  and  death  has  two : 
Whitened  bones  our  path  are  showing. 
Thou  All-seeing,  thou  All-knowing  ! 
Hear  us,  tell  us  where  are  we  going. 
Where  are  we  going,  Rubee  ? 


Moons  of  marches  from  our  eyes 
Bornou  land  behind  us  lies  ; 

Stranger  round  us  day  by  day 
Bends  the  desert  circle  gray  ; 

AVild  the  waves  of  sand  are  flowing, 

Hot  the  winds  above  them  blowing,  — 
Lord  of  all  things  1  — where  are  we  going  ? 
AWiere  are  we  going,  Rubee  ? 


AA^e  are  weak,  but  Thou  art  strong  ; 
Short  our  lives,  but  Thine  is  long  ; 
AVe  are  blind,  but  Thou  hast  eyes  ; 
We  are  fools,  but  Thou  art  wise  1 


SONG  OF  SLAVES  IN  THE  DESERT.  107 


Thou,  our  morrow’s  pathway  knowing 
Through  the  strange  world  round  us  growing, 
Hear  us,  tell  us  where  are  we  going, 

\N’’here  are  we  going,  Rubee  ? 


INSCRIBED  TO  FRIENDS  UNDER  ARREST  FOR  TREASON  AGAINST  THE  SLAVE  PO^VEE. 


The  age  is  dull  and  mean.  Men  creep, 

Xot  walk  ;  with  blood  too  pale  and  tame 
To  pay  the  debt  they  owe  to  shame  ; 

Buy  cheap,  sell  dear  ;  eat,  drink,  and  sleep 
Down-pillowed,  deaf  to  moaning  want ; 
I’ay  tithes  for  soul-insurance  ;  keep 
Six  days  to  Mammon,  one  to  Cant. 

In  such  a  time,  give  thanks  to  God, 

That  somewhat  of  the  holy  rage 
With  which  the  prophets  in  their  age 
On  all  its  decent  seemings  trod, 
lias  set  your  feet  upon  the  lie. 

That  man  and  ox  and  soul  and  clod 
Are  market  stock  to  sell  and  buy  1 


LINES. 


109 


The  hot  words  from  your  lips,  my  owu, 

To  caution  trained,  might  not  repeat ; 
But,  if  some  tares  among  the  wheat 
Of  generous  thought  and  deed  were  sown. 
No  common  wrong  provoked  your  zeal ; 
The  silken  gauntlet  that  is  thrown 
In  such  a  quarrel  rings  like  steel. 

The  brave  old  strife  the  fathers  saw 
For  Freedom  calls  for  men  again 
Like  those  who  battled  not  in  vain 
For  England’s  Charter,  Alfred’s  law ; 

And  right  of  speech  and  trial  just 
Wage  in  your  name  their  ancient  war 
With  venal  courts  and  perjured  trust. 

Cod’s  ways  seem  dark,  but,  soon  or  late, 
They  touch  the  shining  hills  of  day ; 

The  evil  cannot  brook  delay. 

The  good  can  well  afford  to  wait. 

Give  ermined  knaves  their  hour  of  crime  ; 
Ye  have  the  future  grand  and  great, 

The  safe  appeal  of  Truth  to  Time  ! 


THE  NEW  EXODUS.* 

By  fire  and  cloud,  across  the  desert  sand, 

And  through  the  parted  waves, 

From  their  long  bondage,  with  an  outstretched  hand, 
God  led  the  Hebrew  slaves  ! 

Dead  as  the  letter  of  the  Pentateuch, 

As  Egypt’s  statues  cold. 

In  the  adytum  of  the  sacred  book 
Now  stands  that  marvel  old. 

"  Lo,  God  is  great !  ”  the  simple  Moslem  says. 

We  seek  the  ancient  date, 

Turn  the  dry  scroll,  and  make  that  living  phrase 
A  dead  one  :  “  God  was  great !  ” 

♦One  of  the  latest  and  most  interesting  items  of  Eastern  news  is 
the  statement  that  Slavery  has  been  formally  and  totally  abolished  in 
Egypt 


THE  NEW  EXODUS 


111 


And,  like  the  Coptic  monks  by  Mousa’s  wells, 

We  dream  of  wonders  past. 

Vague  as  the  tales  the  wandering  Arab  tells. 

Each  drowsier  than  the  last. 

0  fools  and  blind !  Above  the  Pyramids 
Stretches  once  more  tliat  hand. 

And  tranced  Egypt,  from  her  ston}'  lids. 

Flings  back  her  veil  of  sand. 

And  morning-smitten  Memnon,  singing,  wakes  ; 
And,  listening  by  his  Nile, 

O’er  Ammon’s  grave  and  awful  visage  breaks 
A  sweet  and  human  smile. 

Not,  as  before,  with  hail  and  fire,  and  call 
Of  death  for  midnight  graves. 

Put  in  the  stillness  of  the  noon-day,  fall 
The  fetters  of  the  slaves. 

No  longer  through  the  Red  Sea,  as  of  old, 

The  bondmen  walk  dry  shod  ; 

Through  human  hearts,  by  love  of  Him  controlled, 
Runs  now  that  path  of  God  I 


THE  HASCHISH. 


Of  all  that  Orient  lands  can  vaunt 
Of  marvels  with  our  own  competing-, 

The  strangest  is  the  Ilaschish  plant, 
And  what  will  follow  on  its  eating. 

What  pictures  to  the  taster  rise. 

Of  Dervish  or  of  Almeh  dances  ! 

Of  Eblis,  or  of  Paradise, 

Set  all  aglow  with  Houri  glances  I 

The  poppy  visions  of  Cathay, 

The  heavy  beer-trance  of  the  Suabian ; 

The  wizard  lights  and  demon  play 
Of  nights  Walpurgis  and  Arabian  ! 

The  Mollah  and  the  Christian  dog 
Change  place  in  mad  metempsychosis 

The  Muezzin  climbs  the  synagogue, 

The  Rabbi  shakes  his  beard  at  Moses  ! 


THE  HASCHISH. 


113 


The  Arab  by  his  desert  well 

Sits  choosing  from  some  Caliph’s  daughters, 

And  hears  his  single  camel’s  bell 

Sound  welcome  to  his  regal  quarters. 

The  Koran’s  reader  makes  complaint 
Of  Shitan  dancing  on  and  off  it ; 

The  robber  offers  alms,  the  saint 

Drinks  Tokay  and  blasphemes  the  Prophet ! 

Such  scenes  that  Eastern  plant  awakes  ; 

But  we  have  one  ordained  to  beat  it, 

The  Ilaschish  of  the  West,  which  makes 
Or  fools  or  knaves  of  all  who  eat  it. 

The  preacher  eats,  and  straight  appears 

.  Ilis  Bible  in  a  new  translation  ; 

Its  angels  negro  overseers. 

And  Heaven  itself  a  snug  plantation  ! 

The  man  of  peace,  about  whose  dreams 
The  sweet  millennial  angels  cluster. 

Tastes  the  mad  weed,  and  plots  and  schemes, 

A  raving  Cuban  filibuster  I 


8 


E 


114 


THE  HASCHISH. 


The  noisiest  Democrat,  with  ease, 

It  turns  to  Slavery’s  parish  beadle  ; 

The  shrewdest  statesman  eats  and  sees 
Due  southward  point  the  polar  needle. 

The  Judge  partakes,  and  sits  ere  long 
Upon  his  bench  a  railing  blackguard  ; 

Decides  olf-hand  that  right  is  wrong. 

And  reads  the  ten  commandments  backward 

0,  potent  plant !  so  rare  a  taste 
Has  never  Turk  or  Gentoo  gotten  ; 

The  hempen  Ilaschish  of  the  East 
Is  powerless  to  our  Western  Cotton  1 


BALLADS. 


MARY  GARVIN. 

From  the  heart  of  Waumhek  Methna,  from  the  lake 
that  never  fails, 

Falls  the  Saco  in  the  green  lap  of  Conway’s  in¬ 
tervales  ; 

There,  in  wild  and  virgin  freshness,  its  waters  foam 
and  flow. 

As  when  Darby  Field  first  saw  them,  two  hundred 
years  ago. 

But,  vexed  in  all  its  seaward  course  with  bridges, 
dams,  and  mills. 

How  changed  is  Saco’s  stream,  how  lost  its  freedom 
of  the  hills. 

Since  travelled  Jocelyn,  factor  Vines,  and  stately 
Champernoon 

Heard  on  its  banks  the  gray  wolf’s  howl,  the  trum* 
pet  of  the  loon  1 


]18 


MARY  GARVIN. 


AVith  smoking  axle  hot  with  speed,  with  steeds  of 
fire  and  steam, 

AMde-waked  To-day  leaves  Yesterday  behind  him 
like  a  dream. 

Still,  from  the  hurrying  train  of  Life,  fly  backward 
far  and  fast 

The  milestones  of  the  fathers,  the  landmarks  of  the 
past. 


But  human  hearts  remain  unchanged :  the  sorrow 
and  the  sin. 

The  loves  and  hopes  and  fears  of  old,  are  to  our  own 
akin  ; 

And,  in  the  tales  our  fathers  told,  the  songs  our 
mothers  sung. 

Tradition,  snowy-bearded,  leans  on  Romance,  ever 
young. 

0,  sharp-lined  man  of  traffic,  on  Saco’s  banks  to- 
day  ! 

0,  mill-girl  watching  late  and  long  the  shuttle’s 
restless  play ! 


MARY  GARVIN, 


119 


Let,  for  the  once,  a  listening  ear  the  working  hand 
beguile. 

And  lend  my  old  Provincial  tale,  as  suits,  a  tear  or 
smile  ! 


The  evening  gun  had  sounded  from  gray  Fort  Mary’s 
walls  ; 

Through  the  forest,  like  a  wild  beast,  roared  and 
plunged  the  Saco’s  falls. 

And  westward  on  the  sea-wind,  that  damp  and  gusty 
grew, 

Over  cedars  darkening  inland  the  smokes  of  Spur- 
wink  l^ew. 

On  the  hearth  of  Farmer  Garvin  blazed  the  crackling 
walnut  log  ; 

Fight  and  left  saf  dame  and  goodman,  and  between 
them  lay  the  dog. 

Head  on  paws,  and  tail  slow  wagging,  and  beside 
him  on  her  mat. 

Sitting  drowsy  in  the  fire-light,  winked  and  purred 
the  mottled  cat. 


120 


MARY  GARVIN. 


“  Twenty  years  !  ”  said  Goodman  Garvin,  speaking- 
sadly,  under  breath. 

And  his  gray  head  slowly  shaking,  as  one  who 
speaks  of  death. 

The  Goodwife  dropped  her  needles :  It  is  twenty 
years,  to-day. 

Since  the  Indians  fell  on  Saco,  and  stole  our  child 
away.’’ 

Then  they  sank  into  the  silence,  for  each  knew  the 
other’s  thought. 

Of  a  great  and  common  sorrow,  and  words  were 
needed  not. 

“  Who  knocks  ?  ”  cried  Goodman  Garvin.  The  door 
was  open  thrown ; 

On  two  strangers,  man  and  maiden,  cloaked  and 
furred,  the  fire-light  shone. 

One  vsdth  courteous  gesture  lifted  the  bear-skin  from 
his  head : 

“Lives  here  Elkanah  Garvin?”  “I  am  he,”  the 
Goodman  said. 


MART  GARVIN. 


121 


“  Sit  ye  down,  and  dry  and  warm  ye,  for  the  night 
is  chill  with  rain.’’ 

And  the  Goodwife  drew  the  settle,  and  stirred  the 
fire  amain. 

The  maid  unclasped  her  cloak-hood,  the  fire-light 
glistened  fair 

In  her  large,  moist  eyes,  and  over  soft  folds  of  dark 
brown  hair. 

Dame  Garvin  looked  upon  her:  “  It  is  Mary’s  self  I 
see  ! 

Dear  heart !  ”  she  cried,  “  now  tell  me,  has  my  child 
come  back  to  me  ?  ” 

"  My  name  indeed  is  Mary,”  said  the  stranger,  sob¬ 
bing  wild ; 

“  Will  you  be  to  me  a  mother  ?  I  am  Mary  Garvin’s 
child ! 

“  She  sleeps  by  wooded  Simcoe,  but  on  her  dying 
day 

She  bade  my  father  take  me  to  her  kinsfolk  far 
away. 

L 


122 


MARY  GARVIN. 


"And  when  the  priest  besought  her  to  do  me  no 
such  wrong, 

She  said,  '  May  God  forgive  me  !  I  have  closed  my 
heart  too  long. 

"  '  When  I  hid  me  from  mj^  father,  and  shut  out  my 
mother’s  call, 

I  sinned  against  those  dear  ones,  and  the  Father  of 
us  all. 

"  '  Christ’s  love  rebukes  no  home-love,  breaks  no  tie 
of  kin  apart ; 

Better  heresy  in  doctrine,  than  lieresy  of  heart. 

“‘Tell  me  not  the  Churcli  must  censure:  she  who 
wei^t  the  Cross  beside 

Never  made  her  own  flesh  strangers,  nor  the  claims 
of  blood  denied  ; 

“‘And  if  she  who  wronged  her  parents,  with  her 
child  atones  to  them. 

Earthly  daughter.  Heavenly  mother  !  thou  at  least 
wilt  not  condemn  !  ’ 


MARY  G  A  R  V  I  X  . 


12:-) 


“  So,  upon  her  death-bed  lying,  my  blessed  mother 
spake ; 

As  we  come  to  do  her  bidding,  so  receive  us  for  her 
sake.” 

“God  bo  praised!”  said  Goodwife  Garvin,  “He 
taketh  and  He  gives  ; 

He  Avoundeth,  but  He  hoaleth  ;  in  her  child  our 
daughter  lives.” 

I 

“  ximeu  !  ”  the  old  man  answered,  as  he  brushed  a 
tear  away. 

And,  kneeling  by  his  hearth-stone,  said,  with  rever¬ 
ence,  “Let  us  pray.” 

All  its  Oriental  symbols,  and  its  Hebrew  para¬ 
phrase. 

Warm  with  earnest  life  and  feeling,  rose  his  prayer 
of  love  and  praise. 

But  he  started  at  beholding,  as  he  rose  from  off  his 
knee. 

The  stranger  cross  his  forehead  with  the  sign  of 
Papistrie. 


124 


MARY  GARVIN. 


“What  is  this?’’  cried  Farmer  Garvin.  “Is  an 
English  Christian’s  home 

A  chapel  or  a  mass-house,  that  you  make  the  sign 
of  Kome  ?  ” 

Then  the  young  girl  knelt  beside  him,  kissed  his 
trembling  hand,  and  cried  : 

“  0,  forbear  to  chide  my  father ;  in  that  faith  my 
mother  died  I 

“  On  her  wooden  cross  at  Simcoe  the  dews  and 
sunshine  fall. 

As  they  fall  on  Spurwink’s  grave-yard ;  and  the 
dear  God  watches  all !  ” 

The  old  man  stroked  the  fair  head  that  rested  on  his 
knee  ; 

“Your  words,  dear  child,”  he  answered,  “are  God’s 
rebuke  to  me. 

“  Creed  and  rite  perchance  may  differ,  yet  our  faith 
and  hope  be  one  ; 

Let  me  be  your  father’s  father,  let  him  be  to  me  a 
son.” 


MART  GARVIN. 


125 


When  the  horn,  on  Sabbath  morning,  through  the 
still  and  frosty  air, 

From  Spurwink,  Pool,  and  Black  Point,  called  to 
sermon  and  to  prayer. 

To  the  goodly  house  of  worship,  where,  in  order 
due  and  fit. 

As  by  public  vote  directed,  classed  and  ranked  the 
people  sit ; 

Mistress  first  and  goodwife  after,  clerkly  squire 
before  the  clown. 

From  the  brave  coat,  lace-embroidered,  to  the  gray 
frock,  shading  down  ; 

From  the  pulpit  read  the  preacher :  "  Goodman 
Garvin  and  his  wife 

Fain  would  thank  the  Lord,  whose  kindness  has 
followed  them  through  life, 

"For  the  great  and  crowning  mercy,  that  their 
daughter,  from  the  wild. 

Where  she  rests  (they  hope  in  God’s  peace),  has 
sent  to  them  her  child  ^ 


MARY  GARVIN. 


12fi 

“  And  the  prayers  of  all  God’s  people  they  ask  that 
they  may  prove 

Not  unworthy,  through  their  weakness,  of  such 
special  proof  of  love.” 

As  the  preacher  prayed,  uprising,  the  aged  couple 
stood, 

And  the  fair  Canadian  also,  in  her  modest  maiden¬ 
hood. 

ddiought  the  elders,  grave  and  doubting,  “  She  is 
Papist  born  and  bred  ;  ” 

Thought  the  young  men,  “’Tis  an  angel  in  Mary 
Garvin’s  stead !  ” 


MAUD  MULLER. 


Maud  Muller,  ou  a  summer’s  day, 

Raked  the  meadow  sweet  with  hay. 

Beneath  her  torn  hat  glowed  the  wealth 
Of  simple  beauty  and  rustic  health. 

Singing,  she  wrought,  and  her  merry  glee 
The  mock-bird  echoed  from  his  tree. 

But,  when  she  glanced  to  the  far-off  town, 
White  from  its  hill-slope  looking  down. 

The  sweet  song  died,  and  a  vague  unrest 
And  a  nameless  longing  filled  her  breast  — 

A  wish,  that  she  hardly  dared  to  own. 

For  something  better  than  she  ha(^\  known. 

The  Judge  rode  slowly  down  the  lane. 
Smoothing  his  horse’s  chestnut  mane. 


128 


MAUD  MULLER. 


He  drew  his  bridle  in  the  shade 
Of  the  apple-trees,  to  greet  the  maid, 

And  ask  a  draught  from  the  spring  that  flowed 
Through  the  meadow,  across  the  road. 

She  stooped  where  the  cool  spring  bubbled  up, 
And  filled  for  him  her  small  tin  cup, 

And  blushed  as  she  gave  it,  looking  down 
On  her  feet  so  bare,  and  her  tattered  gown. 

“  Thanks  !  ”  said  the  Judge,  “a  sweeter  draught 
From  a  fairer  hand  was  never  quafied.” 

He  spoke  of  the  grass  and  flowers  and  trees, 

Of  the  singing  birds  and  the  humming  bees  ; 

Then  talked  of  the  haying,  and  wondered  whether 
The  cloud  in  the  west  would  bring  foul  weather. 

And  Maud  forgot  her  brier-torn  gown. 

And  her  graceful  ankles  bare  and  brown  ; 

And  listened,  while  a  pleased  surprise . 

Looked  from  her  long-lashed  hazel  eyes. 


MAUD  MULLER. 


129 


At  last,  like  one  who  for  delay 
Seeks  a  vain  excuse,  he  rode  away. 

Maud  Muller  looked  and  sighed :  "  Ah,  me  ! 
That  I  the  Judge’s  bride  might  be  ! 

“  He  would  dress  me  up  in  silks  so  fine, 

And  praise  and  toast  me  at  his  wine. 

"  My  father  should  wear  a  broadcloth  coat ; 

My  brother  should  sail  a  painted  boat. 

"I’d  dress  my  mother  so  grand  and  gay. 

And  the  baby  should  have  a  new  toy  each  day. 

“  And  I ’d  feed  the  hungry  and  clothe  the  poor. 
And  all  should  bless  me  who  left  our  door.” 

The  Judge  looked  back  as  he  climbed  the  hill. 
And  saw  Maud  Muller  standing  still. 

“  A  form  more  fair,  a  face  more  sweet. 

Ne’er  hath  it  been  my  lot  to  meet. 

“  And  her  modest  answer  and  graceful  air 
Show  her  wise  and  good  as  she  is  fair. 

9 


130 


MAUD  MULLER. 


“  Would  she  were  mine,  and  I  to-day, 

Like  her,  a  harvester  of  hay  : 

"No  doubtful  balance  of  rights  and  wrongs, 
Nor  weary  lawyers  with  endless  tongues, 

"  But  low  of  cattle  and  song  of  birds. 

And  health  and  quiet  and  loving  words,’’ 

But  he  thought  of  his  sisters  proud  and  cold. 
And  his  mother  vain  of  her  rank  and  gold. 

¥ 

So,  closing  his  heart,  the  Judge  rode  on. 

And  Maud  was  left  in  the  field  alone. 

But  the  lawyers  smiled  that  afternoon. 

When  he  hummed  in  court  an  old  love-tune  ; 

And  the  young  girl  mused  beside  the  well, 
Till  the  rain  on  the  unraked  clover  fell. 

lie  wedded  a  wife  of  richest  dower, 

MTio  lived  for  fashion,  as  he  for  power. 

Yet  oft,  in  his  marble  hearth’s  bright  glow. 
He  watched  a  picture  come  and  go : 


MAUD  MULLER. 


131 


And  sweet  Maud  Muller's  hazel  eyes 
Looked  out  in  their  innocent  surprise. 

Oft,  wheii'the  wine  in  his  glass  was  red, 

He  longed  for  the  wayside  well  instead  ; 

And  closed  his  eyes  on  his  garnished  rooms. 

To  dream  of  meadows  and  clover-blooms. 

And  the  proud  man  sighed,  with  a  secret  pain : 
“  Ah,  that  I  were  free  again  1 

“  Free  as  when  I  rode  that  day, 

Where  the  barefoot  maiden  raked  her  hay." 

She  wedded  a  man  unlearned  and  poor. 

And  many  children  played  round  her  door. 

But  care  and  sorrow,  and  child-birth  pain. 

Left  their  traces  on  heart  and  brain. 

And  oft,  when  the  summer  sun  shone  hot 
On  the  new-mown  hay  in  the  meadow  lot. 

And  she  heard  the  little  spring  brook  fall 
Over  the  roadside,  through  the  wall, 


132 


MAUD  MULLER. 


In  the  shade  of  the  apple-lj^’ee  again 
She  saw  a  rider  draw  his  rein. 

And,  gazing  down  with  timid  grace, 

She  felt  his  pleased  eyes  read  her  face. 

Sometimes  her  narrow  kitchen  walls 
Stretched  away  into  stately  halls  ; 

The  weary  wheel  to  a  spinnet  turned. 

The  tallow  candle  an  astral  burned, 

And  for  him  who  sat  by  the  chimney-lug. 
Dozing  and  grumbling  o’er  pipe  and  mug, 

A  maidy  form  at  her  side  she  saw'. 

And  joy  was  duty  and  love  was  law. 

Then  she  took  up  her  burden  of  life  again. 
Saying  only,  “It  might  have  been.” 

Alas  for  maiden,  alas  for  Judge, 

For  rich  repiner  and  household  drudge  I 

God  pity  them  both !  and  pity  us  all, 

Who  vainly  the  dreams  of  youth  recall. 


JIAUD  MULLER. 


13.3 


For  of  all  sad  words  of  tongue  or  pen, 

The  saddest  are  these  :  “It  might  have  been !  ” 

Ah,  well !  for  us  all  some  sweet  hope  lies 
Deeply  buried  from  human  eyes  ; 

And,  in  the  hereafter,  angels  may 
Roll  the  stone  from  its  grave  away  ! 


THE  RANGER. 


Robert  Rawlin  !  —  Frosts  were  falling 
When  the  ranger’s  horn  was  calling 
Through  the  woods  to  Canada. 

Gone  the  winter’s  sleet  and  snowing, 
Gone  the  springtime’s  bud  and  blowing, 
Gone  the  summer’s  harvest  mowing. 
And  again  the  fields  are  gray. 

Yet  away,  he  ’s  away  ! 

Paint  and  fainter  hope  is  growing 
In  the  hearts  that  mourn  his  stay. 

Where  the  lion,  crouching  high  on 
Abraham’s  rock  with  teeth  of  iron. 
Glares  o’er  wood  and  wave  away, 
Faintly  thence,  as  pines  far  sighing. 

Or  as  thunder  spent  and  dying. 

Come  the  challenge  and  replying, 

Come  the  sounds  of  flight  and  fray. 


THE  RANGER. 


135 


Well-a-day  I  Hope  and  pray  ! 

Some  are  living,  some  are  lying 
In  their  red  graves  far  away. 

Straggling  rangers,  worn  with  dangers, 
Homeward  faring,  weary  strangers 
Pass  the  farm-gate  on  their  way  ; 
Tidings  of  the  dead  and  living, 

Forest  march  and  ambush,  giving. 

Till  the  maidens  leave  their  weaving. 

And  the  lads  forget  their  play. 

“  Still  away,  still  away  !  ” 

Sighs  a  sad  one,  sick  with  grieving, 

“  Why  does  Robert  still  delay !  ’’ 

Nowhere  fairer,  sweeter,  rarer, 

Does  the  golden-locked  fruit-bearer 
Through  his  painted  woodlands  stray. 
Than  where  hill-side  oaks  and  beeches 
Overlook  the  long,  blue  reaches. 

Silver  coves  and  pebbled  beaches, 

And  green  isles  of  Casco  Bay  ; 

Nowhere  day,  for  delay. 

With  a  tenderer  look  beseeches, 

“  Let  me  with  my  charmed  earth  stay  !  ” 


136 


THE  BANGER. 


On  the  grain-lands  of  the  mainlands 
Stands  the  serried  corn  like  train-bands, 
Plume  and  pennon  rustling  gay  ; 

Out  at  sea,  the  islands  wooded, 

Silver  birches,  golden-hooded. 

Set  with  maples,  crimson-blooded. 
White  sea-foam  and  sand-hills  gray. 
Stretch  away,  far.  away. 

Dim  and  dreamy,  over-brooded 
By  the  hazy  autumn  day. 

Gayly  chattering  to  the  clattering 
Of  the  brown  nuts  downward  pattering, 
Leap  the  squirrels,  red  and  gray. 

On  the  grass-land,  on  the  fallow. 

Drop  the  apples,  red  and  yellow ; 

Drop  the  russet  pears  and  mellow. 

Drop  the  red  leaves  all  the  day. 

And  away,  swift  away 
Sun  and  cloud,  o’er  hill  and  hollow 
Chasing,  weave  their  web  of  play. 

“  Martha  Mason,  Martha  Mason, 
Prithee  tell  us  of  the  reason 
Why  you  mope  at  home  to-day  : 


THK  RANGER. 


13T 


Surely  smiling  is  not  sinning ; 

Leave  j'our  quilling,  leave  your  spinning  ; 
What  is  all  your  store  of  linen, 

If  your  heart  is  never  gay  ? 

Come  away,  come  away  ! 

Never  yet  did  sad  beginning 
Make  the  task  of  life  a  play.’’ 

Overbending,  till  she ’s  blending 
With  the  flaxen  skein  she  ’s  tending. 

Pale  brown  tresses  smoothed,  away 
From  her  face  of  patient  sorrow, 

Sits  she,  seeking  but  to  borrow. 

From  the  trembling  hope  of  morrow. 
Solace  for  the  weary  day. 

“  Go  your  way,  laugh  and  play  ; 

Unto  Him  who  heeds  the  sparrow 
And  the  lily,  let  me  pray.” 

“  With  our  rally,  rings  the  valley  — 

Join  us  !  ”  cried  the  blue-eyed  Nelly ; 

“  Join  us  !  ”  cried  the  laughing  May  : 

“  To  the  beach  we  all  are  going, 

And,  to  save  the  task  of  rowing, 

M 


138 


THE  RANGER, 


West  by  north  the  wind  is  blowing, 
Blowing  briskly  down  the  bay  ! 

Come  away,  come  away  ! 

Time  and  tide  are  swiftly  flowing. 

Let  us  take  them  while  we  may  I 

“  Never  tell  us  that  you  T1  fail  us, 

AVhere  the  purple  beach-plum  mellows 
Oil  the  bluffs  so  wild  and  gray. 

Hasten,  for  the  oars  are  falling  ; 

Hark,  our  merry  mates  are  calling  : 

Time  it  is  that  we  were  all  in. 

Singing  tideward  down  the  bay  !  ” 

“  Nay,  nay,  let  me  stay  ; 

Sore  and  sad  for  Robert  Eawliri 
Is  my  heart,”  she  said,  "  to-day.” 

“  Vain  your  calling  for  Rob  Rawlin  I 

Some  red  squaw  his  moose-meat ’s  broiling, 
Or  some  French  lass,  singing  gay  ; 

J list  forget  as  he ’s  forgetting  ; 

What  avails  a  life  of  fretting  ? 

If  some  stars  must  needs  be  setting. 

Others  rise  as  good  as  they.” 


THE  RANGER. 


139 


“  Cease,  I  pray  ;  go  your  way  !  ” 
Martha  cries,  her  eyelids  wetting ; 

“  Foul  and  false  the  words  you  say  !  ” 

“  Martha  Mason,  hear  to  reason  ! 
Prithee,  put  a  kinder  face  on  !  ” 

“  Cease  to  vex  me,”  did  she  say  ; 

“  Better  at  his  side  be  lying. 

With  the  mournful  pine-trees  sighing. 
And  the  wild  birds  o’er  us  crying. 

Than  to  doubt  like  mine  a  prey  ; 
While  away,  far  away, 

Turns  my  heart,  forever  trying 
Some  new  hope  for  each  new  day. 

“  When  the  shadows  veil  the  meadows. 
And  the  sunset’s  golden  ladders 

Climb  the  twilight’s  walls  of  gray  — 
From  the  window  of  my  dreaming, 

I  can  see  his  sickle  gleaming, 
Cheery-voiced,  can  hear  him  teaming 
Down  the  locust-shaded  way  ; 

But  away,  swift  away 
Fades  the  fond,  delusive  seeming. 

And  I  kneel,  again  to  pray. 


140 


THE  RANGER. 


“  When  the  growing'  dawn  is  showing, 
And  the  barn-yard  cock  is  crowing, 

And  tlie  horned  moon  pales  away  : 
From  a  dream  of  him  awaking. 

Every  sound  my  heart  is  making 
Seems  a  footstep  of  his  taking  ; 

Then  I  hush  the  thought,  and  say, 

‘  Nay,  nay,  he  ’s  away  !  ’ 

I 

Ah  !  my  heart,  my  heart  is  breaking 
For  the  dear  one  far  away.’’ 

Look  up,  Martha  !  worn  and  swarthy, 
Glows  a  face  of  manhood  worthy  : 

“  Robert !  ”  "  Martha  !  ”  all  they  say. 
O’er  went  wheel  and  reel  together, 

Little  cared  the  owner  whither  ; 

Heart  of  lead  is  heart  of  feather. 

Noon  of  night  is  noon  of  day ! 

Come  away,  come  away  I 
When  such  lovers  meet  each  other. 

Why  should  prying  idlers  stay  ? 

Bare  the  timbers,  quench  the  embers 
Of  their  red  leaves,  in  December’s 
Hoary  rime  and  chilly  spray. 


THE  RANGER. 


141 


But  the  hearth  shall  kindle  clearer, 
Household  welcomes  sound  sincerer, 
Heart  to  loving  heart  draw  nearer, 
When  the  bridal  bells  shall  say  : 

“  Hope  and  pray,  trust  alway  ; 

Life  is  sweeter,  love  is  dearer. 

For  the  trial  and  delay  !  ” 


V 


